Grima's Renegade
by Sxilenced
Summary: The future is bleak. Grima reigns over all of mankind, keeping the world in dark where risen prowl. However, even as Grima's lust for power increases, he is forced to search every land in the outrealm-eventually leaving Drangleic in the wake of destruction. As the two worlds collide and the Chosen Undead finds himself at the middle of it-he decides to change 'fate' for himself.
1. Prologue - Endgame

**_Disclaimer: I do not own rights to the Dark Souls or Fire Emblem franchises-I have just inserted my own interpretation of the characters. This is also my first fanfic... so feedback is definitely welcome. Leave some reviews on what you think! Thoughts are always welcome :)_****_  
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It only took a second for him to pull out the claymore.

The undead was familiar with the blade—its long, double edges, being the only source of comfort that preceded his dreary surroundings. In his most darkest, hopeless moments, he held nothing else. Nothing eased him greater than holding its tender and firm metal. He'd drawn the blade from its sheath countless times before; with an intent to maim, to kill and reap. It's edges had seen the blood of battle, the sorrow of defeat—and today, he thought, was no different.

It rained.

After escaping a long and dark passageway, he'd established that as nothing more than fact. Eerily, sheet after sheet of water pounded heavily against his armor, resounding off like wooden shells. Every so often a tendril would escape past the small slit of his visor but, in a second, he adapted to the feeling and strained his eyes ahead.

The undead had arrived at the entrance of a castle. Even against the storm, every breathing second it seemed the world would light up in a flash of light, gradiating the looming castle in a luminous luster.

Even with his compromised vision, he could tell that it was fairly guarded. Several sentries were stationed in his immediate vicinity, each one covering a good radius with long-ranged weaponry. A crossbow. Two wicked blades, flamberges, and a cast of torch light-the only obstacle to the only entrance.

It was a typical setup to him - if not - a faulty one. They appeared to be relatively relaxed, chatting waveringly to each other, their heads turned from the passageway. Simple, doubtless targets.

As another sudden flash of lightning bashed through the wind, the undead ducked low, using the sound to mask his run to clear the tunnel.

Nothing changed no matter how many times he killed them, took their souls. They came back every time, repeating, falling to the next death with no recollection of the last life. He supposed they were used to it by now - death - but it served him no good to embellish in those sympathies. He had been killed, at times, in more horrific ways than the methods he had used to kill. This wasn't a job he had to do—this was his life.

Their royal armor was forged in a dark iron gray, compacted into two metal plates that defended the majority of their torso. Running the armor around his careful eye, he could tell it was already worn, and couldn't easily withstand more than a couple hits. Quickly finding cover along the cliff that followed the passageway entrance, he switched to a sturdy length of wood that was his longbow. Carefully he aimed, mincing the pull on the strings until he was confident of its power.

He relaxed, allowing the beginnings of a smile from elapsing within him. This was it; he felt at home. This he thought, this moment, were the only seconds he felt truly relaxed in the dark world of Drangleic.

His fingers unraveled around the only trigger.

Immediately, the farthest guard with the opposing crossbow was thrown backward, meeting the ground in a sharp disruption of water. It happened at extreme-speed, faster than the other two guards could react.

Unfaltering, the undead stepped forward, lowering his center of gravity and sheathing the longbow, he breathed, easily brandishing claymore as his fingers twitched in expectation.

With one fell swoop he rushed forward, meeting the first guard in a horizontal thrust. His target shifted backward, drawing, and, equally as fast, was met with another blow that sent him to a dissipation of ash.

It only took him a second to pull out the claymore.

A burst of ash quickly disrupted his visor, prompting the undead to fall back, gripping the blade vertically to his head. Another blade met his. He felt the impact, the clash of eating steel as he stepped back, rolling through a patch of mud and disorientedly finding the way to his feet.

With a blind, diagonal strike, he met flesh. Escaping from his mid-roll, the guard hesitated as soon as he made it to his feet. It was his mistake, and the undead's blade dug deeply into the newfound bone beyond the plates of steel. The guard stared, helpless, as he fell to ashes and was washed down the slight incline of passing water.

He'd stopped feeling the repercussions of killing a long time ago. His fingers didn't do so much as flinch at the impact. The undead had long forgotten his humanity, he'd even tossed it aside, letting it rot with every fiber of his flesh. The more he seemed to kill, the more he lost. And, the more he lost, the more his soul felt the rising desire to kill.

Sturdily he climbed up the rapidly increasing incline, heading in the direction of the bridge that connected to the castle.

The bridge was elongated, painted in a pallid gold. Several extensions of the bridge were evident on either side; miniature balconies that overlooked absolute death. Rain slid down hard on its flat surface.

The undead noticed, as he approached the cusp of the bridge, the disappearance of the Emerald Herald. Her absence was disheartening. Earlier, he never ceased to find her there, unwavered as his landmark to proceed. Through his journey she had always comforted him, in her own way, and never faltered in providing him with his next goal.

Without her, he felt just a little more lost than before.

His next target were two Mastodons, plated in a sharp texture of gold residing at the very end of the bridge. Their position was fixed in two statues - in stone - overlooking the defense of the castle.

Rotating a halberd in his main-hand the undead stepped on cautiously, keeping his helm level to their massive weapons-where he dispatched them, quickly.

Every move, every fault of their armor had been carefully rehearsed to him in a complex apparatus. He learned, to near-perfection, the efficiency of killing, and bolstered an unending confidence that no other undead could come close to competing with.

The Mastodons were finished, turned to ash, just as fast as they had begun to unpetrify.

In five paces he tore through a cleft of spear-men, burrowing the edge of his halberd soundly at the brisk of their skulls. His steps syncopated with the jabs of his blades, tearing through the forefront of the formation until he stepped onto dry ground.

The front gates were already open wide, two embracing arms that guarded a path of stairs. With trained eyes the undead rotated with unbent efficiency, marauding a clear path where no royal swordsman could touch.

When he thought he was in the clear, however, two royal swordsmen charged him on his first backward step. The first, after feinting a slash to his side, bursted into an overheard cleave at blistering velocity. It was a good strike, perhaps by sheer luck, and the undead's instinct reasoned it wouldn't miss. In a recessive back-step, he was cut, nicked by the wicked serrated edge of the flamberge.

Cursing, the undead staggered, whipping his claymore in a defensive rally. Without a word the two swordsmen pressed him, analytically, wrought with swords to punish any mistake.

The second swordsmen swung just as fast. It came from his left - a dry thrust - but predictable, and the undead capitalized on it quickly. Empty of bravado, the undead pulled his shield into an arc, instantly repelling the blade and swordsmen—into the ground in seconds.

In seconds the felled knight was dead, and, not long after that, the undead stood in an increasing pile of ash. His sword arm danced, backstabbing a sift of air.

He had to be careful now that his goal was close. One slip-up and he would be dead - again - only to wonder if he could muster the courage to get up.

Taking off his helm, the undead remedied his wounds with a golden flask—the medical drink, estus. The fluid was tasteless, empty, yet seemed to heal any wound instantly. He no longer required food to survive, but instead necessitated this replacement—a tasteless, dry, sorrowful drink.

It was ironic, to him, the journey that had taken him this far. Not long ago he had sat in a field alone, tasked with bearing a curse he had no intention of keeping. Initially he had spent his time pondering his life outside of Drangleic—but he adapted. Every thought of his home, even if he had no recollection of it, would paralyze him.

He no longer thought of escaping to his home.

Training his eyes on the surroundings and casting away his doubts, the undead walked further. 'Room' was the wrong word to describe the immediate interior of the castle. Its size alone merited its own house, its own cathedral—the undead was unaccustomed to such a grand entrance.

This castle as he remembered, Vendrick's own castle, would be his final destination. His memory only elapsed his time in Drangleic but, he was sure, he bore no hesitation as he walked forward; his stricken gait echoed off the castle's great, marble flooring.

"Halt, there." A voice suddenly called out to him as soon as he'd entered.

"What I see... Is this... some sort of a dream ?... Where am I ? What has happened to our castle ? Who are you ? And by who's permission do you stand before me...?"

The undead stopped mid-pace, his plated Forossa armor falling silently to a halt as he neared the beginning of a cleft of stairs. A ghostly figure resided above him, cloaked in transparent chancellor armor. His eyes gathered off, gazing to no one. For several moments he stood in silence.

"Chancellor. I have come to slay the queen."

The undead's stance shifted rigidly, uneasy, expecting a reaction—a strong one. However, even with that the chancellor didn't so much as move from his position, "I... see... it is no testament then, that you have made it this far..."

He lowered his gaze, settling his eyes between the visor of the undead. "My lord made magnificent findings on souls... an accomplishment for the ages...since ages long, long ago...King Vendrick, we must fight back... or they will take Drangleic."

His pressing look reminded the undead of the hopeless looks of the hollowed. Ripe with a sunken face, they traveled aimlessly, without purpose; shackled by the fate of the cursed. The sight sulkened him. To the undead, to his very soul, he wished he could end his misery as soon as possible.

"It's over now. Drangleic will be safe, even if I have to fight the queen herself; I'll do it." He could not tell if the ghoul ahead of him was listening, but his words were reasurring.

It was true. This, since the beginning, had been his end goal. Drangleic had become corrupt under the vacancy of its ruler, Vendrick, and now that he had served his time, the undead would end it.

The undead stood so silently that when the chancellor spoke, he embedded every word. "The Queen was a women of unparalled beauty. Long ago the queen came to us, alone, from a faraway and distant land, she warned our lord of the looming threat across the seas... of the giants."

He paused, bringing his eyes back to the gate's doors, where his tone suddenly darkened into a new shade of black. From his first word, the chancellor seemed to usher an aura of cold and, unknowingly, the undead shivered.

"The land from whence she came was not unlike ours, unlike a world where nations would rise and fall upon. She has seen many world's... looking for one worthy of ending the age of fire... she is the queen of many... the usherer of dark. We must heed this warning my lord, Vendrick, as she may have found her harbinger...

"It was from the distant lands that the queen brought peace to this land... a peace so deep... it was like...the dark..."

It didn't take the undead long to react. Unsuprisingly, the chancellor had no recollection of meeting the undead. He usually spoke the same words, every time the undead would pass, but now was different.

Before the undead could pinpoint what exactly had changed; the chancellor stopped abruptly. For what seemed an eternity he froze. Unspoken, he stood with a blank stare that and raised his hands forward, embracing the specks of light that echoed past the gate's opening. That

The undead had come to slay to queen. To him, that much was irrefutable. Yet, as he walked on, he couldn't stop the chancellor's cryptic words from falling back on him. The anomaly faded quickly however as, unlike any other time, he was quickly sparring with the face of death.

Smashing the butt of his halberd into the first heavily-armored guard near the right tunnel, he fell back, reaping the blade onto the solid marble flooring. The blade screeched, sparking in an array of gold. His opponent wavered. The guard raised their shield, eerily stepping to the forefront of the hallway in a tactical retreat.

It was there that the undead realized there was something, very, very wrong.

He felt a powerful presense impart from deep within the castle-the eerie, familiar sound of an invader.

In seconds the undead was surrounded. A large complex of soldiers materialized from his left, embrazen with a convoy of equipment. Their entrance was soundless. Planned. Efficient. Coordinated. His vision was suddenly brimmed with enemy swords blazing-the room had quickly become swamped with guards.

No. Guards only divided a fraction of the raiding forces. Each soldier was unlike the kind the undead had seen before, wielding axes, spears, and foreign swords. Their armor was unsightful and fortified: They rushed forward positionally, spreading from both exits in a fan.

Their eyes, however, were what really caught the undead's attention. Instead of the faint glow of the undead, there was... Purple.

In those seconds every escape route was cut and, narrowly, the undead heard the slow whir of gears as the castle's gate closed behind him.

Devoid of hesitation, the he dashed away from the line of soldiers, digging into the floor as a blade of silver cut overhead. He countered steadfast. His claymore switched in and he swiped up, smashing metal in a non-fatal attack.

His grip switched, barring the onslaught with his sleightful hands. He backed up. On his right he transitioned to his claymore, his left a sunlight blade. Whirling the two weapons straight from their sheaths, he clamored backwards; a galeforce of power as he rounded the stairs.

Where there was a line of swordsmen there was the undead's flashing swords—every line faltering in rapid strikes.

At the very edge of his vision he saw the guard by the door. He stood unmoved from his position but, as the undead turned to look, he realized there was only one.

He activated _chaos storm._

It was his last ditch move, his trump card. His left hand reflexively pointed upwards, a pillar of power as he stared downward at the stairs below. The motion itself burned his very surroundings—but was stopped by a single sound.

"RRRRRrrraaagggh!"

As his cast readied he raised his gaze. At the bottom of the stairs a single enemy, a mage as it appeared, held up their hands in a powered gesture. The motion struck fast: faster than the undead could move.

"...What?"

In a burst of sheer force he was blown backward. Stipples of green crests whipped him away from the stairs, fragmentating his vision in an explosion of sound. The undead's sight spurred, toppling, as he fell backwards mid-air into the castle's throne room.

He dove down instinctively, driving the tip of his sword into the room's red carpet. The blade sparked, slowly pitching him to a screeching halt. That attack alone was enough that the undead found it difficult to stand. His armor had been battered in dents. The exit itself was swamped with soldiers, a formation of shields and arms-an impossible line of defense.

The undead breathed heavily, gasping for air that didn't seem to be coming. It was too late to break for an escape. It was suicide. The large expanse of the room would be an ideal battleground should his opponents advance but, with an almost uncanny intelligence, their stature remained by the door. He had witnessed these undead being so collected, so coordinated and calm—as if an invisible force were controlling them.

"Why, isn't this a most pleasant surprise! You must be the one who has been causing the ruckus over here. I daresay, you have meddled enough in our affairs, have you not?"

A wash of cold overcame the undead as he stood up, bringing his knight-shield to a defensive position. The voice came from behind him, opposite the doors, and his gaze settled on the voice's location, a figure clad in dark, sitting upon the king's throne.

"I've come in the nick-of-time... so fast in fact, that I have I might have traversed time itself! I feel most welcome here, it is such an expansive world after all."

In one fluid motion the undead turned, flicking his pyromancy flame in the direction of the voice. He kept one watchful eye on the force behind him, as he stepped toward the voice in a slow side-step. A rapid firestorm of lava emitted from the undead's hand—battering the air as fermented lava voided the distance in a split second.

As the fallout of the explosion dissapated from the throne, the dark figure rose callously applauding, "Magnificent. I'm surprised to be graced with seeing you alive. Such ferocity and heart I had not imagined could be so pronounced in a place such as this. You truly have my utmost regards... heh heh..."

The figure's robes stretched far onto the ground where he stood - and from his beard he discerned it was a male - his figure towered over the throne chair. Undoubtedly he was the source of the dramatic increase of undead.

Visibily shaken, the undead grasped his flame and rotated to the outer perimeter of the room. By that line of thought, logically, he would just have to kill him to end it. He grasped the claymore tighter. "No matter... this world doesn't need self-important scum like you." The figure stated, "I've come too far to have it beheld. Isn't that right, my queen?"

The light in the room dimmed; the torches were extinguished.

From the dark, several black orbs materialized, hissing to life as they positioned themselves around the edges of the room.

It was planned all along; he'd strode into this elaborate trap hook, line and sinker.

Behind the undead, a fog wall assimilated.

"Yes... Validar..." The voice - this voice - emanciated to him from every direction, speaking from every wall within eyesight. Its tone was hollow, befitting, as every second the undead lost - scrap by horrific scrap - his humanity. The undead's vision blurred as he faced the queen's chair. It was splashed with dark, much like its adjacent seat. However, seated in the throne...

Sat the queen.

"Together, let us smite him before he advances..." the queen uttered, raising one pointed finger in the undead's direction, "Come now, we shall show him... the dark... and our new collaboration."

He suddenly fell to his knees, the floor accelerating into a spin beneath him. Two forces of terrible power wrought at the undead's soul, reaping at every fiber of his body.

He rolled quickly as a black wall of dark powered past him. Looking carefully he could see the tendrils of ash rise off the attack. It was an unsightly, black lightning. The power, he felt, was out of this world.

"Validar..." the undead spoke, embedding the name to his soul, "I'll kill you."

"Surely you can try, friend. However I'm afraid you've already lost... As we speak my men are escaping the castle walls and into your precious little world-don't worry. I know all about your little quest for rebirth but, I'm afraid your queen and I will have to take care of some unfinished business. Namely ridding this place of light... Heh heh heh... this won't be unlike the world I have come from, it is by nature that I will destroy ALL. HAHAHA! It is DESTINY! It is Grima's wish!"

He stopped, suddenly quiet and raised his fist high into the air. "This is the end, pitiable fool. I only wish I could toy with you a little longer, it would have been quite pleasing. Unfortunately my time here will be quite short. It is by Grima's wish, have you; good-bye!"

"Grima...?"

He felt the innate feeling to dodge, his instincts screaming to move. However, his sense of time only slowed as he stared, the visor of his helmet growing dim of light. He felt strangely terrified. Death had grown numb to his senses—however, as the undead peered into the dark, he felt to his very bones that this was one life he could not take back.

The blast ravaged his very armor ripping through in a fit of screams and black. His vision blackened. He fell back, his shield, useless.

As he was on the brink of consciousness - the end of life - a bright flash of light flickered before him. It was subtle, like a candle lit in the depths of darkness but, only all around him. He felt warm, stickled with life as his world lit up.

"You will not die as of yet, undead, as this is not the end. Just close your eyes and relax you will be protected. Let us make way as I explain. I shall guide you, save you from this fate-I am Nagi."

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**_Thanks for reading :D As you can probably tell from my writing, it's mostly been affected by western influences but, I'm hoping it can at least scrape by fanfic criteria... hopefully. This is my first fanfiction, so I'm welcome to new ideas._**

**_Anywhos, there are a couple glaring problems that I have to address now in this AU before I go on. I tried to make the world a bit more 'realistic' by removing some of the functions that were present in the original game. Like warping for one. And those omg-godmode-I-frames. I also limited the undead's equipment box, or 'the bottomless box', to only what he can carry and his hot-bar._**

**_I'm looking forward to continuing-especially later on when I can write out what goes on around the Ylissean camp. That'll be a bit down the road though, next chapter I'll be bringing in Lucina. It will be the apocalyptic future-to-the-past thing after all. I welcome any feedback I can get and, again, thanks for taking the time to read. I appreciate it :)_**

**_- Sxilenced_**


	2. Chapter 1 - Means to a Swift End

The Undead stood in a wasteland without knowing how he got there.

In the time it had taken him to blink, a split-second, and he had no recollection of his surroundings.

The air was tasteless and dry, like the atmosphere itself had been fumigated with dust. In a similar fashion, the undead was suddenly aware of the piercing heat around him, instigated further by his heavy armor.

He collapsed. The texture of the ground melded into a surface that had no foothold. Sand, as the word came to him, would take some getting used to.

No, perhaps 'wasteland' was the wrong term to describe it. Every speck of his vision, towering over every horizon, was the same unending sprawl of sand. The sky was a cloudless blue. The undead could not look any further - up or down - without facing the glaring effect of the scorching heat.

This was a desert. That much he could be sure about.

Throwing down his claymore, the undead plunged the blade into the ground and regained his footing. His muscles tensed as he readied his sword, scanning the sifts of the sand. On instinct he was ready to strike at anything that moved-one shift in the sand would be met by his sword.

His thoughts sped by,_ The queen has to be here somewhere... I don't feel either of their presences in the vicinity... an illusion? It cant be..._

"This is no illusion my undead. On the contrary, your situation is very much real."

Unprompted, the undead dove sideways, slashing wildly at the sound of the voice. The blade met air. He quickly rose to his feet, rotating his blade into a new stance and readying his pyromancy flame.

An aura of foreign power radiated ahead of him. He couldn't discern his opponent's amplitude, their method of attack. He only knew the presence was strong-matched by only a select few in Drangleic.

"How ungrateful... I may have very well saved your life."

The undead staggered. His gaze dropped, focusing in on the voice's location.

It was a woman, looked to be thirty, tall, and with straights of green hair. Her complexion was oddly transparent-as if the undead was seeing things-a mirage. He took note of her silky white robes, her lack of equipment and muscle tone. She was weaponless. Had a weapon been brought, it was well concealed.

Still, the undead was unwavered. He could not dismiss the power that forebode him. It wouldn't surprise the undead should she be concealing a staff, hidden spells, and the undead waited, for one movement, to capitalize on her while she tried to cast.

The woman's gaze pierced the dark of his helm, and the figure held out her hands in a friendly gesture. "I do not wish to harm you, undead. It is not in my state of being that is is possible... nor very wise. I am the one who has summoned you here. For I am hopeful that you shall change your fate... and this world's as well."

The undead stared beneath the visor of his helmet. He read her expression carefully, forwarding his thought to detect a lie-any lie. "Drangleic's not in a position to last much longer. You've done us both a disservice." He stepped forward. "I'm sorry. As it is, I don't have much of choice. Bring me back. Do it now."

His voice was loud, confident as he drew nearer. His sword arm was readied and he raised his head, eye-to eye with the figure. He bore no remorse for his situation, and it was obvious the woman knew it too.

She didn't move from her position, choosing instead to lower herself to the sand, cross-legged in a sitting posture. The sand phased around her. She was untouched. "I was correct in choosing you, undead. I have watched your world for some time; you truly are very strong. And, as I have been thinking, strong enough to challenge fate..."

_Fate._ The undead didn't speak. _I've heard that dozens of times._

Except to him, the meaning was different intuitively. He had known since the very beginning that his future was pre-destined. His whole life was lived to burn, as charcoal to feed the flame and bring about a new age of fire. Destiny and fate; the turns of his future were no different. He'd taken it to heart that he would meet no other ends.

Yet, the more he gazed into the woman's eyes, he sensed no lie. As she said it, if fate could be broken-he was already skeptical.

"Fate is not meant to be broken. It has to run its course, even if it has to turn out for worse," He swiped the claymore down, scraping the sand and tried to look intimidating, "Fate is what has kept me going. You're in no position to stop me."

"Perhaps not. However, you don't understand the full gravity of the situation."

His head sashayed. "Fine. Explain."

The woman stood from her sitting posture. She towered. "...Very well. It is not by destiny that we have met. In truth, had I not interfered with your world, you would have met your own end. Had that been the only case, however, I would have remained indifferent."

"...Get to the point."

"Such impatiance." She chuckled to herself; if what was heard really was laughter. For a second, her robes flickered with a slight lackluster. "As you may have innately guessed, this is a world that is quite different from your own. It is a world where its populace do not bear the markings of the curse, nor its savagery, and thrived through several reoccurring nations. In that regard it is similar... however..."

She continued, cutting off the undead with a wave of her hand. "This world is of also an alternate time. It existed, independent of your own. You are free to return to return to your world whenever you see fit-however you must know this-your world, like this one, is wrought upon a similar evil."

The undead hesistated. Typical. No lies. I would feel a lot better if you did... He mulled over his thoughts, unceasingly keeping the figure within his eyesight.

He shot off the easiest question; the typical one, "This 'evil' you've talked about... What is it, and how does it have anything to do with my situation?" He brandished his pyromancy flame readily and remembered her name, "No lies. Nagi."

The figure smiled. "It is as foretold. Very well." She paused suddenly, trailing on as her voice ascended sharply. "This world, for many thousands of years, has been wrought by the terrible dragon Grima. This dragon; this harbinger of evil; regardless of its previous influence, has again been awakened recently. His influence spans every inch of this world and, as your surroundings foretell, has corrupted it. It is by sheer power that he thrives and, by definition, power in the heart of the powerful has always struck greater heights."

Looking at her, the undead could almost pick away at the words she would say-every syllable-and by the time she spoke up, the undead knew everything. He knew, deep inside, what that implication meant.

"Grima, along with Validar as you have met him in the flesh, have struck the Outerlands in search of other worlds... It is only by sheer unfortune that he has happened across your world... Chosen Undead."

He remained silent. His only option, before his eyes, was wiped clean from his palate of choices. His path back was blocked, cast away, by a danger more iminent than any creature he had ever faced could pack. If his instincts were true, then this woman was right-and Drangleic would be under a new, unprecedented danger. Permanently.

"...I see. You understand." The woman's smile didn't waver. "I am also sure you understand why you have been summoned here as well."

He dropped his swordarm. "Yes... you want me to stop this disaster, Grima; this dragon before it manifests in both of our worlds. I understand that."

"You are correct."

"Then I'll do this on my own terms."

"That is by your nature."

"I feel like I'm being used."

"Perhaps. However, this is by no means charity. You have your own substantial weight on the bargain as well."

He sighed, unused to firing off so many complaints. _I do have my own volition on this trade after all. I should play along. Dragleic was in danger already... with this Grima in the equation that tips it for the worse..._

He peered from the visor of his helmet once again, settling on the woman's gaze.

It was difficult to take in. Seconds before he had fought, fought for his life and, in no time it all it seemed he would be given a second chance. He told himself to adapt but, he couldn't shake the feeling of bitterness from settling in.

It seemed his journey wasn't quite over yet.

Peace had never really been fond of him.

The undead disarmed his primary weapon, but kept his pyromancies unsheathed. "This is out of necessity. I could care less about the people here-this is their problem. But it's a mutual one. If this is the way it is... I don't have much of a choice. I'll do it."

"I will entrust that duty to you. I will advise to you however, Grima is not a foe to be taken down alone. You will need a certain person to adhere to you the power and information to defeat the immortal dragon."

Nagi turned her gaze to the distance, onto the endless sea of blue sky. "There is a young woman by the same of Lucina in a village to the east. A swordswoman if you'd be so curt. Visit her and she will give you the answers you have been seeking. This the only path to which I can guide you. My power has since dwindled, and it is unlikely we shall cross paths again. If only I could be of more use but, alas, I have done my part. I will entrust the rest with you."

Her words were spiked with a shallow finality. "Could you provide more information on 'Lucina'?"

"I have only known of the name." She bowed her head, "My deepest apologies."

_...Shouldn't have hoped._ He ignored his spark of suspicion. "...Alright. Then I suppose we're done here...I'll find her."

Nagi walked towards him, suddenly silent. He assessed her expression quickly; her calm expression harbored an almost pained facade. It suddenly occured to him that this was the first time since they'd spoken that she'd hidden her emotions-and that bothered him.

"I hope that this truly is not our last meeting, even as unlikely the chances are. As I have said, walk east from here and you shouldn't miss the village. Defeat Grima, and bring peace to both our worlds...May the gods watch over you."

Bit-by-bit the woman dissolved into the air, her transparency increasing until what was left was only the mounds of sand. Turning slowly, the undead raised his pyromancy flame and pulled his hand to his chest.

"See you soon."

Chanting under his breath and turning to the rising sun he uttered, "Flash Sweat."

* * *

At some point the draught of sand shifted to solid dirt. He was unaware of the change, only following the sun that had quickly risen to midday. The intense heat had slowly subsided as well. He soon found it unnecessary to use his pyromancy flame, and focused his attention on the ground around him.

The ground's foundation was sturdy and, because of that, he noticed the makeshift wreckage of buildings make their appearance. Curious, the undead trudged toward one, Longsword in hand. Pressing his back to the wall he spun in, watching the perimeter of the opposite wall as he positioned his footing.

Unsuprisingly, the other buildings were decimated in the same manner. Every structure was vacant-and empty of any sign of housing for what appeared to be years. Every roof was torn from its foundation; the floors was riddled with cracks that brought about dafts of sand; and the doors of each building had been torn from their hinges, as if some unknown force had bludgeoned them down.

He stepped out of the last building and sheathed his weapons.

It was possible that this was the village Nagi had been talking about. If that was the case-his mission was over before it started. The natural assumption was Lucina was dead. Her village had been destroyed. Whatever scraps of structure was only the remnants of that village, ridden of what life it had.

Go back.

But his resolve punched at him, refusing to believe that. He refused to believe his mission was for naught.

He jutted his head forward and walked on, pushing through the airless landscape until he realized his answer.

The undead stopped, dead in his tracks.

His destination wasn't a village-it towered over him, a crest of stone that surmounted most formations he'd ever seen. 'Village' didn't hold candlelight to the mass of stone that lied ahead. The wreckage that he'd witnessed earlier only the outskirts. The prelude to his destination.

Village-no, a castle; a city of walled stone was constructed in, literally, the middle of nowhere.

His gait loosened as he approached what looked to be the entrance. Like every dividation of the wall, the large wooden doorway that housed the structure was construed with cracks. The innermost section of the door was pushed slightly in and, the undead realized, sentries were hidden amongst its walls.

Caught by his distractions, an arrow narrowly missed his head.

One by one, a line of sentries appeared along the lineage of the wall, bearing down a half-circle of bows while centering him into the cross-hairs. He drew claymore and bladed an arrow mid-flight and, in succession, dove into an outcrop of sand as another arrow furrowed an inch from his torso.

"Lay down your weapons immediately! This is an order from the Ylissean guard-should you refuse to comply, we WILL commence fire!"

Ylissean Guard?

The undead remained, unmoved as he sized up the situation. These soldiers were good with their marks, attempting an escape from this position would be a death-sentence. On the other hand, he was certain the distance would be his greatest ally. Dead or not, he couldn't afford to lose his only lead, Lucina, to a couple of cheap marksmen. The undead laid down his weapons.

He stood up, warily staying behind the sand-pile.

It took the Ylissean Guard only several minutes to open the gates and flood in, armed to the teeth, as several guards readied their bows against him. The undead thought about the times he'd faced an army of this size and, as he drawled on, he'd come up with nothing.

It suddenly occured to him-the question-of what would happen if he died.

"Guards! Escort this soldier into the inner gates and exercise a length of caution. He bears foreign armor but does not appear to be risen, treat him as you would any other foreigner!"

The guards shuffled, unhindered by the voice that commanded them. Walking forward, the undead approached, concealing his alternative weapons. Risen... he thought, Is that the term that they've attributed to the morphed undead I saw at the castle? It was a little far-fetched but, at the moment, he couldn't come up with any other reason.

As soon as he'd come within a closer radius, the right flank of the group circled around him, cutting his way back. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a select few run off to retrieve his weapons.

"Prepare to close the gates! No one else gets through here after us!"

"Aye, Sir!"

"Close 'em up!"

"Alright!"

He felt the roar of similar cheers elapse from the group around him. It occured to him that the guard wasn't accustomed to dealing with visitors-they were armed far too heavily-as if expecting a threat. They had targeted him with high-awareness-even if the opposing numbers added to an insignificant one.

_Security seems to be centered around the 'Risen' around here... I'll need some info on that subject as well. I'll also have to avoid any personal connection to these people; they're too_ _trusting, _He thought.

The immediate interior of the gate housed a well fortified encampment. It appeared to be mounted to stave off an invasion, equipped with sharp steel spears that jutted at the forefront.

He quickly assessed the location of an exit: a back alleyway supported between two beams that seemed to lead deeper, past the encampment. He was grateful that he'd gained access to the city so easily, but he knew innately, to ditch the group as soon as possible. The undead needed quick info-and he doubted the guards who spent all their time at the border would have it.

"Hey, hey! Who's the stranger, you guys? Let me at 'em!"

The undead looked up, perching his eyes on the slight overpass that connected the base to a separate building.

"Wow!" A girl yelled, leaning over a railing and at first appearing to be talking to no one, "He has some pretty cool armor, don't you think!? I'm going down to check him out!" He watched as the girl fumbled down a spiral staircase at her right, tripping at the last step.

The undead could not think of another voice that could match her's in volume. It rapidly occurred to him that, even from his own world, he hadn't paid too much attention to the other's. His psyche almost bristled on laughter-but a little curiosity too. If this Lucina was as centralized as he'd thought, she should've crossed the the conversations of the common-folk.

"OOOOOOHHHHHHH. Ouch! That's gonna hurt..." The fallen girl quickly stood up, patting away at invisible dust. In a fit of embarrassment, she straightened her blue hair, and froze in place as she realized the whole garrison had stopped in their tracks.

"AHH!" The girl rushed forward, before almost tripping a second time, "I mean-WOOOOO that fall was nothing! I'm not hurt! Nope. This is all in the life of being a hero like me! Ha. Ha."

Whispering mumurs simmered from the guards behind him, who were so silent before. It sounded like this was a common thing. Stopping himself, the undead faltered and wondered if that was a good-or-bad-thing.

The girl's embarassment spell was only temporary though, because as soon as the army had stopped, she ran forward with open, embracing arms. "What is that? Steel? Iron? A mix in-between? You must be some kind of foreign hero! Where'd you come from?"

If he didn't know better, he'd figure he was being attacked. Her fists pounded endlessly against his armor with every sentence, working out every chink. Her gaze settled curiously on his armor and, quickly, she took a step back as she nodded. The undead blinked. It didn't seem driven by sheer curiosity, this girl seemed to know her way around armor as well.

"HEY! Cynthia! By the gods... WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!"

His head snapped to the voice. Nevermind. He thought, Yelling seems to be pretty common here.

"What?!" The girl snapped forward, flicking her eyes between him and the girl ahead. The undead cursed. Slowly. "Cynthia, you air-headed little... Are you daft or something? Why do you have to be out here EVERY time the garrison comes back? They're always so annoyed! Don't you see that?"

"Er..." The undead found himself saying, although it was obvious no one was listening.

"Hey, Severa!" The girl, Cynthia, said completely oblivious to the other girl's protests, "Just LOOK at 'em! Don't you think he looks like a hero? He came from outside the walls!"

"Ugh. Will you PLEASE stop with your delusions and grow up already?"

"They're NOT delusions! I'm serious!"

"Then at the very least get out of the way...! Haven't you noticed that the whole garrison's stopped because of you?"

"Um. Really?"

"...Just MOVE!"

The other girl, Severa, seeked her out and grabbed her by the hand, wrenching her to the side of the path. They settled out next to a nestle of bushes and argued in a series of gutteral shouts. Even then the whole garrison stood by and watched, as if they'd never left in the first place. That was interesting...? Maybe I should wear something that looks a bit more common next time.

Still, this was a good opportunity. Leveled hilt-up from her side, Severa had sheathed a stiff steel sword. Given that the two appeared to be acquaintences, it couldn't be too much of an assumption to think that she had to be versed in combat as well. Perhaps her sword has crossed blades with the one I'm after...

After the majority of the guard had pursued the inner-workings of the city, the undead approached the two of them, quietly keeping on the dirt path. Ascertaining that no one was watching-he readied a patch of green blossom. He recounted his inventory quickly-about ninety-eight. This would probably take alot of energy.

The two watched in horror as he stuffed the blossom into his visor.

"AH! What are you doing with that thing? Are you eating it?!"

"See?! This is the kind of thing heroes do!" She knelt down and picked at a patch of grass.

"...NO!" Severa slapped her hand, making sure every blade of grass was swept by the wind, "You're so desperate, you know that? Just because he comes out of nowhere doesn't mean he's suddenly some sort of hero..."

Seizing his opportunity, the undead spoke up. "Humph, HERPPHHH! Agethhhhh...!" He hacked up his lungs. "_Ouch._ I mean, hello. Nice to meet you. Have you met a swordswoman named Lucina?"

His voice didn't sound the least bit less guttural than earlier, but at least now it was comprehensible. It was definitely the most round-a-bout way of an introduction.

"Hm..." Cynthia hummed, after what seemed like minutes, sizing him up, "You've come to challenge her, is that it? Well-" she pulled at her weapon, fumbling in an effort to look dramatic. "I might not be as good but, you have to get through me first...! I am Cynthia, the all-powerful-hero of Ylisse!"

Severa's palm moved to her face.

He stood, maybe a little too still for the challenge. As he expected, the garrison had proceeded without him and, in his current vicinity, he could only sense three people. There was a slight incline to the ground of the road but, even then, it was unlikely spectators would be aware.

He felt the strange urgency to take her on seriously, although he couldn't rationalize why. She smiled at him, without fear, even as he readied his stance.

"...What. _What?_ Are you serious?" Severa snapped her head between them in the same fashion as earlier. "Gawds. Both of you. You're nuts."

But even as she said that, she stepped back against one of the pillars of the overpass and readied her own sword. "I don't want to see any blood, you got that?"

The undead nodded. He wasn't planning to harm her, if anything, this was just a time to guage one of Ylisse's fighters. Cynthia's hair was tied into two simple ponytails and, when she readied her weapon, from his point-of-view the hilt appeared to rest between them.

This would be difficult. The weapon was a still-variant of the halberd but, like a portion of the guardsmen-the undead was unfamiliar with it. The battering ram at the shaft was fashioned into a sharp, double edged and thick metal.

The undead raised his fists.

Quizzically, Cynthia raised an eyebrow as her weapon dipped. "Hmm? You won't draw? Well-" she smiled again, cheerily humming to herself as she leveled the blade, "I won't pull any punches just because you're unarmed. Heroes play for keeps!"

The undead closed the distance in a second. "Naturally."

In one quick thrust, the undead pounded straight into the shaft her of weapon. He felt the pressure of his stance release all in one attack and he landed, his right fist facing the ground. "Aauugh! That's..." She countered instantaneously, and the undead dove down, catching his breath as a metal tank roared overhead.

"-Not good enough...!"

The undead jumped back, copping himself out of the weapon's reach. The girl was surprisingly fast. Her experience with her own weapon was glaringly obvious. It appeared to take little strain to orchestrate attacks-and every hit was only narrowly off target.

Cynthia caught her breath, "A fist weapon. Wooow! I haven't seen something like that before, Sneaky. That's just way too cool!"

"It's a caestus." The undead said, readying his next attack, "Glad you've taken in an interest in it."

She charged, dipping the blade low enough that every step trimmed away at the underlying grass. "That's EXACTLY why I'm going to have to win it over!"

It was the undead's turn to smile. "That's too bad."

Sidestepping, the undead spun around the outer edge of the shaft as it rocketed past him. In one movement he rolled over, pinning his foot to Cynthia's chest as he wrenched the blade from her hands. The exchange took less than a second. In a fit of clashing metal, he swung her weapon in a vertical arc and sent her to the ground.

"Nice try."

Recklessly testing its weight, he held the hilt a good inch from her throat.

"Well!" He noticed a presence from his left and he backed up, realizing who it was. "Cynthia, you can stop staring at the sky now. Hello? Cynthia?"

"Eek... being a hero is harder than I thought." She finally sat up, patting her face.

"Don't be such a loser." Severa said, giving her a little shake, "You don't have to prove yourself to anyone, remember?"

The undead crouched and handed her the spear/halberd/lance. Her form and method of familiarity with her weapon were flawless, but she was still lacking in her own strategy. He straightened up slightly and peered at the two of them. "Don't get reckless when your target has widened the distance because, most likely, it's an invitation. You're fast. Use that to your advantage when you're attacking-not your footwork. I'm surprised, you had me on the ropes for a second there."

Cynthia's normal smile resurfaced immediately. She pounded her hands together in a crunching gesture, which I assumed, as friendly. Her eyes widened at his suggestion, and suddenly her face beamed. "Of course you were! No one takes down the great Cynthia without a fight. Just watch me. I'll best you in no time, fellow hero!"

Severa shrugged after a moment. "At least her head is back to normal. Whatever that could be." She turned to him, crossing her legs as she continued to sit and looked up. "That talent of yours... what exactly was that? It's foreign."

Not knowing a good answer, the undead shrugged. "It's my own style. I know my way around most weapons, mastering each one has just been out of what's been available."

"Ugh. Well." She spouted, "That sounds awfully dreadful. Well, maybe just as awful as our current situation, actually. We don't get many visitors around here, much less ANY good weapons."

"So I've heard..."

"You've heard about Ylisse before?"

He bit his tongue. "In my own way... yes. I'll let you in on that."

She stared at him, her eyes narrowing in a fit of skepticism. "Are you lost, or something?"

He thought about it for a moment. His conversation with Nagi resurfaced and he was forced to nod, "Yes."

She sighed exaperatedly, shaking Cynthia out of her stupor before standing. "You're one unsightly piece of work, aren't you? First you enter the walls, get in a fight, and NOW you're asking us for directions. How much more rude can you get?!"

The undead's voice was level, but he felt exasperated. "Well that's-"

"You were talking about Lucina earlier, right? Are you satisfied now, or are you still in a bloodthirsty mood?"

_Did we just switch gears?_

"I'm not looking for a fight with her, actually." He held up his hands in defense, "It couldn't be farther from the truth. I've just been searching for her a while now. It's important."

She walked a little ways off, leaning on the pillar that she stood next to earlier. "Well THAT'S absurdly specific for Lucina. What else?"

Cynthia sprung up at the mention of the name. "Whatever questions you've got, you can leave them to me. I am her sister, after all. No worries."

The undead stopped in his cycle of thoughts, dead at the very center. "You're her sister?" He turned to her, trying to buffer the onslaught of his reasoning over seeing her. He couldn't stop himself from uttering the obvious question. "Can you tell me where she is?"

"Well... fiiiirsst... you have to tell us the big why." Severa pointed out, much to the undead's annoyance. "We can't have you marching over to the palace unannounced like that. You better have a good reason."

The undead's mind peaked at overdrive. That was true. He'd forethought that this was the situation, that Lucina might be located at the very core of the situation. Looking at the two persons next to him though, he doubted they would take any half-assed answer. This was a gamble. It was like a flip of a coin-they would either understand-or at worst he'd be ridiculed.

At that very moment, it seemed like a very, very small price to pay.

Motioning for the two of them to come closer, he lowered his voice, analyzing his surroundings at the corner of his eye. "I've come to Ylisse to find Lucina, and only her, because I was told that she had information regarding the dragon Grima. My arrival was only to retrieve that information."

He sighed before continuing. "Questions."

The two of them were frozen in place. It didn't look as if they were very surprised, only scared, poised into running from his words. His face contorted into an unseen frown. That wasn't a reaction he'd expected. Suddenly, the midday heat had felt frozen over, tossed in a pit of stalagmites of ice.

Severa's expression darkened as she stepped back, turning around to the entrance of the city. "Grima... looks like it's time we stopped messing around." She looked back, one eye tracing the horizon behind him. "What a joke. It looks like you'll be tagging along with us until we get there. Don't drag on us. It's time you stepped out of your little play-box too and joined in... We'll talk on the way there."

Recovering from the initial shock, the undead was suddenly aware of two things.

He was determined.

And irrationally scared too.

Unaware to his liking and the surroundings of the city itself, the dragon, Grima, slowly tore open the skies as it approached the only safe-haven in the world.

* * *

**Alright! Sorry it took me a bit to get this chapter out, I've been working on multiple stories at the moment. It gets a little difficult to manage it all. In any case, let me get to the meat of my 'notices' before I continue.**

**At the time of this post, I haven't had the time to seriously edit this chapter. I just didn't have the time, and I wanted to post as soon as I could to a week-by-week basis. I'm sorry if it makes some sections difficult to understand. Also! For those of you who are familiar with the Fire Emblem DLC, Future Past, the current situation with Cynthia being within the city walls will be explained later. In due time. I'm trying to make this story accessible to both franchises. I'll be posting the undead's stats next chapter as well.**

**You may have also noticed that - and some of you may have not, depends on if you've played an FE game - that I've already made some pairings which are evident in the the children's hair color. If you have any pairing suggestions, they're welcome.**

**Anyhow, thanks for reading and, hopefully, my AUs won't have to be so lengthy once the groundwork is made. Let me know what you think and thanks again for reading. The support really helps :)**

**- Sxilenced**


	3. Chapter 2 - Incursion

Death had usually been a painless transition to him.

Death, at his most haphazard times, even brought relief. He remembered the sensation of black, of the endless surrounding dark, only brought about by the burst of light—that he would know he was alive. He'd grown numb to that aching, pitiful feeling.

However, that feeling did not bring comfort to him now. Death had never felt so real to him as he turned the gates of Ylisse— the feeling had never been so tuned to his sense of life. One death could bring him unintentionally back to his own world, to a situation that he knew was an impossibility. He could relent that death was impossible, but furthering such an action would be the equivalent of death.

He could not die; it just wasn't an option.

Walking no further than a couple feet ahead of the girls, he felt strangely uncomfortable.

He was constantly aware of every passerby. Every bump in their clothes. Their expression. Concealed weaponry. The painstakingly suspicious gazes as he walked forward, his armor clattering like a tank.

His sword-arm grip relaxed on his claymore when he'd realized the attention it exuded. They'd retrieved it after leaving the front-post, coaxing the guards into believing the two were capable of keeping tabs on him. He'd hesitated when that happened, re-obtaining his weapons as the guard spoke of their reputation. Severa and Cynthia were regarded as a fairly capable duo, part of a bigger support team that shadowed the inner populace of Ylisse.

Their efforts - in accordance with their group - had been a large factor in the well-being of the city. The guard appeared to be surprised to see them, almost reverant, treating them as unappreciated heroes.

His mouth tightened as he pondered and walked past a merchant handing out brochures. Despite the fact that they were nearing the center of the city, the stagnant, lifeless air from the outside wafted through the population by the droves. He couldn't proceed without reminding himself that the nearest building hadn't been alight, or that he was inducing a hallucination.

That atmosphere reflected even deeper than that.

Every face they passed was grim, frowning, as if each day had dragged on farther than the last. Each citizen, as the undead quickly noticed, eyed him warily as he passed their ranks, tense-as if he resembled the enemy. The world-wide evil had made its mark here. It was apparent, known to every soul he passed.

He'd apparently been silent for a while because he felt a light tap on his shoulder, "You okay? That's not good, worrying is never good for anyone. A lot of Ylisse's populace are a little dreary right now, but you shouldn't let that get to you." The undead looked over at Cynthia, considering how he looked from his helm.

"No, it's not." He finally said, after walking a bit more, "It's just familiar."

After she fired off a confused look, they arrived at a short crossroads that met with several shops. It was considerably less crowded here, and the undead breathed into his helm unsteadily—they had been walking for a long time, and he didn't feel like taking any detours.

"Well..." Severa's reddish hair flashed ahead in little flash, and the could barely match her sudden speed. She'd gauged the atmosphere perfectly. "I think its time we went shopping!" She suddenly exclaimed. The notion made her look ridiculously expectant, as if he were supposed to jump at the suggestion.

The undead froze, an iceberg that refused to move.

"...What."

"Don't 'what' me, tin man." Severa pouted, pointing a slashing finger in his direction. "We're shopping, and that's final. You would benefit from a change of attire, trust me."

He weighed his options before feeling a shove from behind. "Alriiiight! I want an axe."

Severa retorted, "No."

Sooner than he would've liked, and armed without a shred of coin, he entered laboriously into the shop, practically shoved between a curtain and a wall. His eyed scanned the new room. Lines of similar equipment lined the walls to his right, hanging from the shelves in short rows.

He'd never been accustomed to the environment-although it wasn't foreign. There was a price on every sell-piece. An armed guard marked the goods, and the customers, with a watchful eye. He couldn't afford to look suspicious, even if his two companions were making it next to impossible.

"Welcome!" A rosy voice called, "Goods are on sale today!"

The undead immediately regretted the detour. The voice hinted at a bit of mischievousness, and he already felt conned—even if his pockets were only occupied with air.

"Hello, Anna! Shopping for a foreigner here..." Severa charged on ahead, ducking underneath an array of clothing on the way there while hopping happily, "Glad to see your swindling endeavors are running smoothly."

_Ah. I knew it. _He thought, irrationally pleased with himself.

"Yup," She replied, exclaiming almost too joyfully, "Just as usua-what?"

The undead followed the voices in stunted steps. The ground was bereft of any open, spotless space, where every inch was covered in oddities: ropes, paper, and scraps of gravel. He assumed the owner didn't have a penchant for being organized but, looking for weapons, it didn't seem surprising that customers would outright ignore the conditions of the shop and just... shop.

He pulled himself under the length of clothing. He was perfectly content with his own equipment, but it wouldn't hurt to familiarize with Ylisse's. After all, if he was going to get stabbed in the back, he didn't want his last thoughts to be fraught with ignorance. Nothing could be more unnerving than being impaled from behind and, all the while, trying to deciphering what the hell was killing you.

"Ooh. Look at you...! Aren't you the little armored fellow!" The gaze of what he assumed was Anna suddenly sparked up, ectastic as he cleared the clothing pins. "I'll give you a hefty amount of gold if you're willing to sell that plate of yours-which would be at a comforting price, I assure you."

Her red hair was gridlocked in a large ponytail that ran down the center of her back and sported two lengths of hair down her face, befitting he thought, of a merchant. Unfortunately, her wicked smirk stopped her from being an open-book. The price-tag of a thick breast-plate caught his eye: seven-hundred gold.

He bluffed. "I'll bite. How much were you considering?"

Her eyes dotted around the room at the question. The undead watched her carefully, and shifted his gaze quickly to the surrouding walls. Cynthia approached him from behind, silently shifting her way through the entrance of the room.

She smiled at him, tilting her head slightly off to the side. "How does fifteen-hundred sound to you?"

"I'll pass." The undead said instantly.

"Wha..? Well, why not?!"

The undead smiled in spite of himself. He was sure it was just sheer conjecture up to this point but, as he spoke, and the more he watched, the more he was sure of his answer. He'd been wary of cons, any tricks; Drangleic and his own life were unforgiving to any mistake, and it stretched deeper than combat alone.

"It's obvious that you're experienced in your own wares, and on top of that you should be able to appraise equipment as well," The undead stopped for a moment, juggling several possibilities. "Severa said this: I'm a foreigner. It's clear you had that in mind when you gauged your prices—I'm also sure you've said the same thing to every customer who's arrived here. That's too convenient. I'm sure you've constructed this shop with keeping this in mind..."

He continued, and Anna was silent. "Your least expensive equipment is here, at the back of the shop. The ware is still good but, given the low prices you've set, it would be easy to deceive any customer into believing their equipment is valuable-at least-to the items in comparison. In reality, you can set any price range you wish as long as it-"

"Okay!" Anna suddenly interjected, flustered, "AGH. And I thought I had the perfect setup this time. You got me, you big meanie. Now stop spreading around my secrets! You'll scare all of the little goldmines away!"

The guard behind them shifted. The undead felt almost sorry for him.

"Now that you mention it," Severa started to say, obviously surprised by his sudden explanation, "Who are you, exactly? You're not some rogue. I don't even know your name...?"

The undead tensed. He stared off to a space where he was sure he could maintain his focus. He'd unknowingly been dodging this subject up until now. It was self-evident in his home; that he was nothing-nobody-an undead, and he was just that. His name, his original identity had long faded as he had entered Drangleic. He'd struggled to pinpoint a good alias, but he'd been too distracted.

His mouth widened. Unspoken words itched at him to be released. What kind of explanation would it take, albeit a lie? Was his identity truly that important, or was it really discardable? There was no good answer.

As he finally consoled himself to a ridiculous answer, he felt a looming shift of movement behind him.

_No._ He thought, _Above._

He abruptly stunted his train of thought and pulled backwards, eyeing the entrance with a careful gaze. The shop was located not too far from the intersection of the road, where a dense patch of woodland shrouded the back of the store. It would be easy to approach unnoticed. This sudden presence-painstakingly auspicious.

Severa's intentful look stopped just as quickly. Her hand found her sword, and her eyes warily narrowed. There wasn't a sound as they mobilized around the shopkeeper, warding their weaponry as the roof itself shook lightly from an unknown impact.

There was an assailant on the roof. It was a raid. Undoubtedly.

The three of them rounded to the entrance quickly as the guard rushed past to watch Anna. Switching to his longbow, his fingers instinctively curled onto a firearrow-its tip glowed in the fading sunlight. A cold feeling started to well up from inside him. That uncomfortable feeling that one mistake, one slip, and that would be the finish of it all. He'd would end this quickly.

Before he could pinpoint the exact direction of the assailant, a whistle of wind flashed from his right. He aimed. The longbow grazed his arm as he reflexively turned, lining up the dark figure with the tip of his finger. Mercy and hesitation were fatal here; but he rocketed the arrow toward the figures leg.

That was his mistake.

To dodge, all it took was a split-second.

Unprompted, the figure dove forward, meeting the grass in a crisp somersault as the grass lit a moment where they once stood. He didn't hesitate. It was on reflex, an immediate reaction to his opponents closing position. The undead pulled out claymore. Closing the distance, the figure recovered easily, darting forward in strong, rapid steps.

Out of the corner of his eye the undead accounted Severa burrowing through the thick underbrush of the shop. Nearing the right side, she brandished her sword suddenly, as if coming into contact with someone else.

_There are multiple assailants here._

Met with that realization, the undead rushed forward, beveling the blade in a vertical line. He breathed heavily as his mind retched itself into overdrive. This had to end, and quickly. The battleground was utterly silent at the onslaught of enemies. The only sound that could be heard was the clashes of metal, and the eerie gusts of wind, as if the whole city was sucking in its breath.

His sword sparked, sword-to-sword, with the figure. "Rrrrghhhh..."

This... this was it. These people, this depraved, pitiful creature; the splitting image of a hollowed undead. From one exchange, the undead could tell they were bred to kill, made to desecrate those who opposed them. They were one and the same. The afterthought of his hatred.

The undead buried his doubts.

For these risen...

He would kill them.

Drawing backward, the undead watched as his assailant swiped at a gust of air. Successively and without any margin for error, he spun, swiping horizontally in a short dash. His opponent was fast, but faltered there, as if unfamiliar with the movement.

The undead met an uncanny amount of flesh.

Swiping clean through the attack, he transformed into a roll as soon as a burgeoning explosion of fire hurled past him. The attack, by itself, would have been impossible to dodge if the undead hadn't taken into account Severa's location. Thinking that, his free hand curled around a Witching Urn. Hurdling it recklessly at the source, it met its target as an ear-piercingly loud splash rattled the grass.

Time slowed to the undead's heightened senses.

A sharp axe grazed his back as he ripped his blade upward, colliding into another mass of steel. His neck craned forward as an arrow came short on its mark. An axe appeared from his left. Another from behind. A blade met his own, and he grimaced as he was kicked in the chest almost immediately.

In seconds he was knocked backward, dazed as he struggled to regain his sense of balance. Luckily the front of the shop was still vacant of opposition. Anna was out of range of the immediate danger. He sensed the guard scramble up several meters behind him and draw his own weapon, wrapping up whatever opening they had.

All the undead saw was a sea of beady, red eyes as they surrounded the front of the small shop. The strait of the road, their only salvation, had been cut off completely by a sea of weapons in mere seconds. Their only hope was to hold onto the intersection and break for the woods. It was to their disadvantage but, staying here, it was a pure deadlock that they could never hope of winning.

He faltered as he heard a voice—a familiar voice. Turning his head slightly, he couldn't surmount the onslaught of shock that rattled his resolve.

"H-help... me..."

Cynthia limped from the side of the shop, unaware of the force of enemies as she approached parallel to the road. A deep cut ran down the side of her leg; an arrow protruded painfully from her left arm. It was an unnerving, aching sight.

Her eyes were downcast in a painful grimace, shocked as an unsightly amount of blood was fixated to her body. Her usual upbeat posture was completely gone, and she stared ahead, her eyes unmoving as if the rest of the world was tuned out of focus.

He could only register that observation, that one cleft of a thought, before he immediately regretted that fraction of hesitation.

A risen attacked.

It was one, a singular, unmatched risen that dispatched itself from the group and launched itself at Cynthia at blinding speed. His eyes could barely track it; the silver blur of motion that seemingly bent reality to its will. It approached with blistering fast, closing almost a hundred feet of distance faster than the undead could blink.

On impulse, the undead tapped out his throwing knives. Three, thrown in quick correspondence. He wasn't sure if their path had been barricaded, or if he'd missed entirely. The end product was the one and very same-unadulterated killing intent.

The risen raised a short blade high into the air, a slick silver blade of moonlight, and swung down, thoughtless before it would meet its target.

"RRRGGGGAAAHHHA!"

Cynthia was going to die.

Crimson red; a flash of red; black. Every color flashed before the undead's eyes, flickering as he cut through an approaching risen. This was natural. He should've been used to it by now. He'd seen it. A hundred times over.

A flash of blood lit up the world.

Yet, he couldn't stop himself from yelling out.

The living.

The living don't come back.

And, maybe as testament to that, he felt an immense shockwave expand from where Cynthia had been standing. What he thought as the mark of death. A decompression. An elapse of expanding air. Cynthia's body fell limp to the side, and he watched two figures clash, the risen slashing clean into a splash of blood.

But not Cynthia's.

Another one, one still shrouded in dark, cried out from the attack of the risen. The attacking sword had been poised fatally, but now only scratched its original target. The undead found it in his limbs to move.

The risen's body crashed backward. In a fit of invisible attacks, the approaching risen sustained massive, physical damage. And, just like that, the risen twitched to a stop. Dead-as if fought back by an invisible enemy that could not be stopped.

"I was almost scared. Risen assassins. Don't think for a moment you can get rid of me that easily...!" Severa coughed out a fit of blood but, at least, she was alive.

Their battle wasn't done. He was a fool for thinking that.

He didn't have the time to relish in whatever repelled the fatal attack. Regardless, he estimated the chances of the same event occurring again was slim. He could scarcely hear Severa's haphazard breathing as she struggled to stay upright, clutching her torso in pain. The eyes of the risen crowd shifted toward the sudden yelling. He would need to draw their attention-if even for a few seconds-and that was his specialty.

"Stay behind me and don't move until the path of the road is clear," the undead found himself saying, and rummaged through his equipment. "Head in the direction opposite of the crossroads and don't stop."

He turned slightly and saw the guard and Anna simultaneously nod their heads. Their faces appeared to be generally anxious, but he knew it didn't appear to them that they had any choice. At this point, he felt they were more of a hindrance, even if the guard was reasonably equipped.

Thinking that, he placed the first ring since coming here to his left hand.

The Redeye Ring.

His surroundings were naturally dark, but the ring easily shifted it to a transient red. Stopping in the center of the road, the remaining forces stared at him quizzically. The undead was aware of his change of appearance as well-and at this moment, he probably looked no different than any of the Risen ahead of him.

He smiled wryly.

The only way we differ, The undead thought, is who will be left standing.

He slammed his halberd into the the first wall of swords. He spun, quickly utilizing the heavy side of the blade while keeping them at the crest of his hit-zone. A passive row of risen dispatched themselves further back and, through the flurry of weapons, he rolled as a half-dozen arrows sailed past him.

He dragged the risen into his erratic pace as he pressed forward. He spiked his attacks at odd angles and they easily fell back treading the lighter ground of the road and into the grass. Not a single risen fell at his hands but, really, that was never his goal in the first place. In his current state he could easily outspeed the crowd and, as contrary to his original thought, many of the risen could not attack without risking the injury of one of their comrades.

This was all the time he needed.

A silver axe came at him from the side, breaking his consecutive whirling motion and easily disarming him when the weapon came into contact with the halberd's blunt edge. Before he could retrieve it, draw, or dodge—his assault stuttered to a stop when a spear found his way to his shoulder. Then an arrow. An explosion of red fire.

He cursed.

The last spell propelled him to the front of shop-sending splintering planks of wood in every direction as he collided with it. That didn't satisfy the risen, and they pressed forward, forcing the undead further down the fallen walls of the shop.

He grimaced as he pulled the spear from his shoulder; his vision seemed to be swamped in real blood. The shop was a dead-end from what he could tell, undoubtedly, breaking through the back-wall would be very difficult. He was thankful that Cynthia and Severa had escaped though, and the Redring had done its job.

Still, he couldn't ignore the fact that he was close to death.

Realistically, his chances of surviving were vastly slim. Every unit of the opposition were tactically experienced, knowing the ins-and-outs of combat and leaving nothing to chance. Competing with them, even in a one versus one situation, would take a substantial amount of effort. In the face of an army of the creatures however, he couldn't help but smile wryly at the situation. At the very least, he would take them down with him.

Before he could execute his next move however, holding his position at the very back of the store—he heard an ear-piercingly loud scream in the distance. His stance buffeted as he crouched, and he leaned against a pillar of weaponry.

It was still too dark to see outside; he only saw a starry sky of red.

His thoughts flattened._ That sound... another enemy?_

He swapped his first ring with the Red Tearstone ring. Steadying his breathing, a miraculous amount of strength returned to him as his body glowed into a faint, crimson red. It's effect would remain active as long as his wounds were on the edge of being fatal; it was the only decent trade-off without compromising his estus flasks.

An enemy wasn't out of the range of possibility. The risen appeared to be able to organize themselves into squadrons, meaning reinforcements couldn't be even remotely unlikely. Is that their signal? This building is the worst place I could possibly be in; can I get through the-

"MINNNNEEEERVVAAAAAAA!"

Clack, clack, clack.

The undead snapped from his stupor and equipped his longsword; that voice was obviously not from a risen. _That voice... a mount?_

"Dammit...!" A tall, black iron figure shouted relentlessly at the hoard ahead, bringing up an axe to his shoulder. "I can't believe risen have infiltrated this far inside the walls. Rotten flesh... I have no choice but to cut you down where you stand! Laurent, Nah. No one leaves here half-alive!"

Immediately, the frontal formation of the risen fell back. At first the undead didn't realize what they retreating from but, as soon as that thought came to mind, a wicked beast blurred his vision and three figures landed onto the dirt road, weapons drawn.

"Even in death, you continue to suffer. I sympathize with your plight. But an enemy is an enemy, and no amount of pity will stay my hand. Come. I can help put an end to your torment once and for all."

"If it's a war you want... I'd be flattered to hand it to you!"

_These voices._

He couldn't avoid looking like an enemy if he approached them now; that reaction was inevitable. Their stances immediately fanned out in front of the shop, a triangle that refused to move. A silver axe lead the trio. An unarmed girl and what appeared to be a mage followed his movement, shouting makeshift orders as they readied themselves for the assault.

Their strength didn't go unnoticed-the hoard shifted at their appearance and the undead felt their combined power. The large bird-like creature even seemed unfazed, groaning in a painfully evident boredom.

He recounted the remaining forces of the hoard and concluded that, even with their power, it couldn't have possibly been enough. Versed or not, and even if their most oppressive forces had been dealt with, their numbers exceeded the trio's one-to-five. At the back of the undead's mind a whispering voice reminded him that using this to his advantage could be a possibility. It would be easy to slip out in the midst of the attack.

He couldn't find it in himself to do that.

"Looks like you could use some help..." The undead finally said, stepping out from the dark of the shop, "I'd be happy to ease the numbers for you."

Expertly, only the unarmed girl took the time to glance back. Her expression was slightly pained, as if noticing the undead's wounds. Her hands were curled around a small stone pallid stone, tinted to a shade of faint green, although he quickly realized that she couldn't have possibly been unarmed. That might have been her means of attack.

Firing off a warning glance at the mage, Laurent, she turned back to me and said, "If you can fight, we'd be glad to have you. Just don't get in our way."

"...That's fine by me. I'd rather not stand by and watch."

Taking calculated sips from his estus to assure that the Redstone Ring was still in effect, the undead ran forward, scraping his longsword into the ground as a piercing scream of metal.

"Enough talk." The point-man uttered, "The enemy lies ahead of us."

In response, the girl muttered, "I know that."

The crowd ahead of them stirred restlessly as they approached, as if tentatively picking off the most sadistic way to kill us. Two armed flanks of bows steadied their aim, and the undead closed his eyes as he readied his sword. Their reaction was immediate. When the first arrow left the its origina they charged forward, speaking rapidly as a hail of arrows assailed them.

Closing the distance, an array of fire and metal clashed along the side of the road, and the undead had finally taken a second to relax—just like that moment at Vendrick's Castle, mincing at the pull of the longbow's strings.

As his first strike landed squarely into the first risen's chest, he let himself revel in a little satisfaction.

Maybe, one day, this struggle would be worth it.

* * *

...

..

.

"That's rather interesting... it seems your circumstances are fairly peculiar, no? Perhaps it may even seem to be fairly auspicious considering the recent attack."

"I'm not connected to it," the undead answered attempting to sound reassuring, "It'll be easy to for me to bring up some cross-references as well, I've arrived at noon and only from the southern entrance. What you're thinking is impossible."

"I see..." the dark-haired girl, Nah - whose name was surprisingly hard to understand, and had to be spelled out - answered for Laurent. "It can't be helped. I'm sorry that we've been suspicious, and ah, after you've helped us out."

The undead shrugged indifferently, "...I would like to think I'd do the same."

"That's good to hear." Nah smiled.

They were chatting like this awkwardly on Minerva's back.

Minerva was surprisingly large enough to fit all four them. Her slight wings brought about swift, breakneck winds from below them, but it was surprisingly easy to talk despite the wind.

Their initial fight together had been as he'd expected: a fairly quick one. Despite Nah's small stature, she was a dangerous presence on the battlefield, a clear-cut powerhouse of strength. Using her small "Dragonstone" as she had called it, her combat potential was incredibly vast. A dragon had the stakes on that kind of reputation.

Despite that substantial edge in combat however, Gerome and Laurent could have easily balanced the odds. Gerome lead a wicked assault, utilizing Minerva's jarring speed in conjunction with his arsenal of weapons. Every strike had the potential to leave Risen flying and, undoubtedly, that's exactly what happened. Laurent worked well with the other two; his skill was evident.

The undead supposed that he might have a thing or two to learn himself.

The fight had actually been the lesser of the undead's problems. As soon as the last risen had been finished off, he'd narrowly avoided being scorched by his own, even temporary, allies.

Nah had knew he was undead.

He'd retreated back a little hastily, pressed for information. Nah's senses were incredibly keen, sniffing out that, really, his smell had been no different than a risen's. To his relief though, they didn't press him beyond that, and considered the possibility that risen didn't have the capability to speak.

Naturally, only Gerome - the owner of Minerva - had opposed silently opposed him.

"It's okay, Minerva. We'll be there soon, and I'm sorry for this ride to be such an annoying burden to you. I'm aware it's more than you're accustomed to carrying..." He heard him now.

_Was that supposed to be an insult?_

The undead revealed to the three of them there about his short acquaintance with Severa and Cynthia. After a moment of surprise and debilitated arguing, he ascertained that their relation was mutual-the three of them were part of the "group" he'd heard about.

Their destination was the grand-castle of Ylisse but, at the beckoning of this information, Minerva ceased all forward movement.

"Where are they now?" Gerome questioned, simmering on darker emotions, "You were alone when we arrived. Where are they?"

It took him longer than he wanted to respond.

"They escaped." The undead said, "The two of them were injured, but not fatally. I confirmed it as soon as I got the risen's attention."

"...Despicable. Have you no qualms of leaving the two of them behind!? Alas, Ylisse is under siege, it is unthinkable how you could leave them."

That was certainly a notable argument—maybe even a strong one. Intuitively, he should've realized that the Ylisse was directly under siege, and refused to be lead off so easily. It was... possible. A possibility like that shouldn't have been overlooked and, even if it was the wrong solution, it was a little embarrassing to know that it had never crossed your mind.

"No way." It was Nah who spoke up. "I think it's believable. Besides, I think it would mean ill-will to doubt him after what he's done for us. Severa and Cynthia will make it back alive, I'm sure of it."

Gerome looked like he wanted to ask something else, but stopped. His gaze was hidden behind the soft texture of his black mask, hiding the contours of his face that would've revealed his words. His white hair contrasted heavily with his mask.

This team, the undead thought, must've been through a lot together.

At the back of his mind, the undead pondered on Cynthia and Severa, and the incursion on near the western wall. The crossroads Severa and him had arrived on would eventually lead to a straight-route to the capital building-they were just unlucky fighting the frontal force of the risen at that very moment.

_That means Ylisse is already on the verge of attack. Validar... and Grima... will be coming here. Just like Drangleic... Nagi claimed I wouldn't be able to handle this alone._ He stole a curious glance at the three of them. _This. Is this really enough?_

"We've arrived." Laurent said, nonchantly.

"Let's get this over with now." Gerome nodded, signaling Minerva to land, "Lucina is uninformed about the Risen's breach on the western gate. She should be here now."

Wordlessly, the undead analyzed the surfacing of the castle. Guards were stationed at every vantage point of the building, armed to the teeth with long-ranged weaponry and sending out numerous troops out of the fortress' many gates. Their descent continued unnoticed until they landed in an open garden at the roof of the structure.

They dismounted. Meeting the tender grass in a small hop, the undead looked at the surrounding flowers and wondered how odd the sight was. War was on the horizon, and yet such a peaceful place like this would be at the center of all of it. It made him feel particularly... sad. He couldn't rationalize that feeling.

He reorganized a bit of his equipment while Gerome made the preparations to keep Minerva stabilized. His armor was heavily damaged from earlier but, using a small batch of repair powder, all of his equipment was promptly refurnished.

He passed it around when the three of them emitted jealous vibes.

At the moment, he had lost his halberd, two estus flasks, a small amount of green blossoms, and around five lifegems. The cross-road battle had reduced a considerable amount of his equipment-which was irreplenishable-and yet there were inevitably even more to come.

Instilled with knowledge, he followed shortly behind the others.

A long archway preceded the third-floor entrance of the castle, decorated with a large array of flowers and gold trimming. Passing underneath, the three ahead of him nodded toward two guards stationed there; after which they closed a large gate behind him.

He couldn't fathom how beautiful, how regally reserved the floor was. Rich, crystal chandeliers hugged the ceiling at ever intersection of the halls; a long marble fence-line trimmed the side of the hall - which the undead realized - was actually a series of walkways. Down below, he could hardly make out the tiny human titular figures, which numbered an exact two.

"The stair's are this way." They followed Gerome down a short series of passages and down the nearest stairwell; down another. The other two didn't seem to be familiar with the setup of the building either, and frequently took the time to glance around.

Their footsteps ricocheted softly against the marble floor.

"...We've lost a lot of soldiers... Every day gets a little worse for us, while the Risen grow only stronger. Are we simply postponing our demise? The castle defenses are weakening... Please, my friends, I need you here. Find the stones we need...

Nah's face familiarly raised itself into a pained expression and she pulled on Gerome's shoulder, staving us from the foresight of their conversation. Only the thickness of a pillar separated us.

"Does something ail you, Lucina? You look troubled."

The undead held his breath. The silence had never been so apparent since he had arrived here, arrived in the falling city of Ylisse.

"Lady Tiki? I am sorry—I was lost in thought. What are you doing here? I had thought you had taken refuge in Mount Prisim."

"What?!" At this, the three of them gasped. He didn't know why. The source of the voice, Lucina continued on without notice. "But it was heavily defended!"

"Yes, and for that I thank you. Had you not dispatched some of your finest soldiers... I and the Ylisseans in my company might would have never made it this far. Not that we did not suffer our own share of casualties..."

He could feel the mood in the room, this colloseum of air, darken by several shades. "I'm so sorry... I had thought, at least, that Mount Prism would keep you sa-"

Lucina stopped talking.

"Lucina? Is something the matter?"

"You!" Her voice echoed, suddenly closer than he had anticipated, "Near the stairwell! In the name of the exalt, reveal yourselves immediately!"

The four of them all turned to each other. Her perception on the closer perimeter was extremely keen, even though they should have been farther than what should. A radiance of power emanciated from her voice, strong, an unmoveable source of power and deterimination.

Gerome sighed and, one-by-one, we stepped out from the stairs.

"We are here, Lucina. There is no need for the hostilities."

"You... Gerome... what's happened? Why are all of you here, now of all times? Have you all returned from your pursuit of the gems? We cannot perform the ceremony without this information... I must know immediately! Have you not returned from Plegia...?

The undead intentionally dredged a slight space between the group and Lucina, keeping at a good several short paces behind. At this point, confronting her was anything but arbitrary. He'd listen first.

"That's..." Nah spoke up immediately, as if the words were difficult to get out. "We've retrieved two of the gems, already. Only... the boy's team is left to return. We had some luck as we'd had it. It appears to me that Grima's been repositioning his troops."

Lucina resorted to silence for several seconds, fiddling with a blue lock of her hair. To her right, was another young woman-

Wait.

Was that... Nagi?

Lucina continued, emerging from her long silence to Nah's question, "...That's very troubling indeed. However, I am glad you have arrived safely. We would be postponing the Fire Emblem further if it had not been for your presence. The fate of the future lies on our shoulders... we must turn travel to the past to ease our burdens."

Saying this, Lucina, as well as the green-haired girl next to her, took notice of me.

"Is this... a new ally of yours?" Lucina spoke, softly but with a rising tone of caution.

Nah and Laurent looked back at me together, the edges of their mouths pulled slightly. This was a situation he could have not harbored on his own-he was glad. "Indeed." Laurent said, "He is quite versed in the complex atrocities of combat, of which I can faithfully vouch. Our timely arrival would have been quite problematic without."

"He's come to meet you," Nah added.

Lucina tensed, patching a side-ways glance at him as she spoke, "You've come to meet me? Very well... It is an honor to be graced with one so acquiantanced with my friends. You are gladly accepted within the walls of Ylisse."

Thinking back, the undead had only been addressed this formally once, which, as he had remembered, could probably not have been a good thing. The one time where that occurred had been inside the confines of Vendricks Castle; now could possibly be no different.

He tossed that aside and opened his mouth to speak.

"Wait-" The girl, who had been consistently stayed silent at Lucina's side spoke up. The resemblence to Nagi was uncanny, and he had to restrain himself from calling her out. He vaguely recalled that Lucina had referred to her as "Lady Tiki" and ceased any preceding movement to speak.

"Is it really you...? This undead that I have only heard of in my sleep? This... this shouldn't have been possible. Nagi... Nagi... you-"

A chill. A chill spiked deeper into his body, deeper than any blade could ever succumb him to. A powerful presence lurked at the very edge of his subconscious, yet it came from every inch of his surroudings. This castle was heavily fortified. The likelihood of an intruder entering the vicinity was-

No.

His denial had been too costly. Shadowing the heavy white lines of the wall, a hooded figure hazardly approached Lucina. Yelling a quick warning, the undead realized it was too late before the last syllable had left his mouth.

"Lucina, look out! ...Nnrgh!" Taking note of his warning as well, Tiki switched her gaze and dove in at the last possible moment, and cut off the sudden attack immediately.

Cursing, Lucina shouted, "Lady Tiki!"

A sharp, black blade dug out from Tiki's back, painting the floor in a half-circle of blood. This assassin, garbed in an almost midnight black and purple, skillfully sheathed the blade in one swift motion.

In that time, Tiki had been assassinated.

"It's you... I can't believe it... you couldn't have possibly have gotten into Ylisstol. Lucina... run... get away from here as fast as you-agh..." Grasping her hands around the blade of the sword, she fell forward.

"Lady Tiki? Oh no, please... LADY TIKI!"

The four of them could barely contain their shock as the assassin tore off immediately to the right; a quick rotation of speed as the perpetrator aimed for the stairwell.

Wasting no time, Laurent chanted, casually bringing the assassin to a halt when the shortest path ahead was doused in un-quenchable flames.

"Damn you!" Lucina readied her sword-an icy silver streak of silver coveted in gold, "You'll pay for harming Lady Tiki!"

Having failed the attempt of escape, the hooded person turn slowly, bearing along with the sword, what the undead had learned to be a tome. Their face was clothed in a mesh of black and, regardless of how deeply the undead strained himself, he could not make out who it was.

**It** chuckled.

The assassin, the murderer of Tiki, chuckled loud enough that it silenced everything in the room. The raging fire ahead of us faded away as an ominous voice spoke, like a suffocating blanket of black that absolutely refused to go by unnoticed.

"YOU WISH TO HAVE ME 'PAY'? HOW DEMANDINGLY PITIFUL. YOUR FUTURE HAS ALREADY LONG BEEN SEALED, IT IS FATE THAT IT IS YOUR UNDOING. YOUR FATHERS, YOUR MOTHERS-THEY ARE ALL DEAD. LEAVE THIS FOOLISH CONCEPTION OF YOURS THAT FATE CAN BE CHANGED, AND YOU SHALL BE AT THE HAND OF MY MERCY."

Perhaps, this was his goal from the beginning.

It had only been a day since he had arrived in Ylisse, the forgoing fortress that refused to let the world stomp it out. There was an alluring hope to that kind of mentality and, unknowling, the undead followed that to his very core.

The undead knew his goal. He had treated it as a singular, objective goal up to this point, and refused to acknowledge his experience with Ylisse into his list. However, even in this short time period, he had come to the conclusion that that was never the case from the start.

Ylisse, and the rest of the world, had never strayed in their goals. It had been survival, from the very beginning, at its bones, that's all it ever was. Yet at his inital impression, the undead scoffed at himself. He wouldn't be fighting this battle alone; they were on the same side from the very beginning.

Thinking that, he raised his claymore and imbued it with flames, shouting so loud that it would take a multitude of seconds before the echoes would fade.

"Grima! It doesn't matter to me what fate this world has been destined, or whatever means you've constructed to achieve that. It's irrelevant. Useless. Don't spout out nonsense. For my world and theirs—fate can change."

He stepped forward, tilting the flat of his blade,

"Even if I have to massacre your whole army to do it."

* * *

**This will be a longer-than-typical AU. Despite what I said last chapter. I am. So. Sorry.  
Here are the undead's stats, for those of you who are interested:**

**Vigor - 30  
Endurance - 40  
Vitality - 20 (X)  
Attunement - 20 (X)  
Adaptibility - 40  
Strength - 30  
Dexterity - 40  
Intelligence - 25  
Faith - 10**

**I know. I know. Weird stats. By absolutely no means would anyone invest so much into "Adaptability", at least typically anyway. I've kept most of these stats as "symbolic" references to his actual RL skills. In the Fire Emblem verse, this would mean that he's invested primarily in "Skill" and"Speed" with "Strength" acting as a secondary asset. There is meaning to his "Intelligence" and "Faith" as well.**

**Onto another matter. I'd like to disclaim right now that I am seriously out-of-tune with the "Future-Past DLC". There could be ridiculous errors that I might have missed. I've done a lot of research, but I'm not confident enough to say it's fool-proof. Just a warning.**

**I've more-or-less sorted out the pairings. I'm a little hesitant to reveal the hair color of each character so early on (because it might force my hand later by revealing sudden relationships) but its generally unavoidable. I'm sorry if certain pairings are unfavorable for you, but that's how this has to roll. I'm starting to near the point where pairings have to be made. I'm thankful for the suggestions though, I've given an ear to them.**

**On that note, I'll end it here. Thanks for taking the time to read. I'll try to keep my updates as close-to-weekly as I possibly can.**

**Again, thanks.**

**- Sxilenced**


	4. Chapter 3 - Kill the Chanter

**_AU -_**

**_I'm sorry for the short chapter, and for such a long wait. I ended up losing a good amount of the words I wrote, and it was a little discouraging, especially because school time has come around. (Yes, I'm still in school) And I wanted to release new content as soon as possible. Anyhow, to make up for it, expect a new chapter by the time the next weekend hits. _****_Next chapter won't be nearly as short._****_ Thanks again :)_**

_Bearer of the curse. I will always be by your side. Until hope has fully withered…_

It took the undead several long seconds to adjust to the pressure. His hands jittered to the bone as he stared down his helmet; an aura of bravado; a mirage of shifting courage that withstood the cold of Grima's voice.

In that moment he remembered—and he would never forget—the soft, warm words that the Emerald Herald had given him. At first he felt a pang of remorse as he thought of her – alone – in a dying Drangleic under-siege from Grima's forces. He didn't want to picture it. She couldn't fight, not on her own.

Granted, he had received word from Nagi that the time-barrier was irrelevant, but a part of him still doubted that. He thought about how long this would take, or if it would end here.

He leveled his claymore.

He couldn't afford to hesitate—not now. Thinking, at this point, would be a hindrance when it would surface at the front of battle. He needed to narrow his train-of-thought and focus. There were only two forces on the board, these two powerhouses, and nothing else in the world would matter.

Presumably, they had an evident home-field advantage. He had memorized the perimeter starting from the stairwell to the front gates and, judging from the looks of the others, they had followed a similar path of thought. Their escape route and, if they needed it, wouldn't be out of grasp.

From the shadow of an upturned hood, the undead saw Grima smile tentatively as if he'd just read his mind.

_No hesitation._

"Bold words." The undead stilled himself to reality as Grima chuckled eerily. "It's dreadfully PITIFUL how meaningless they are. 'MASSACRE'? 'FATE'? They are all a means to your swift and painful ends. You each walk a thin line. I WILL KILL YOU. Like your parents—Like your laughable curse."

_Curse?_

Gerome snapped next to the undead, spitting sharp words as his axe-arm vividly shook. "I swear it. You will regret those words. A slow death would be very fitting for scum like you." He looked prepared to strike, to kill, but it was obvious that the aura of power ahead was enough to quell even that.

A wash of cold overran the undead as he stepped forward – his aura – and he heard several gasps from the others as they quickly tried to steady themselves. Every pillar around him shook in a weakening resilience, as if the entire foundation was being taxed by the force of cold.

Grima's power had been magnified—it was obvious he had been concealing it until now. The undead remained unnerved. Even, if that had been the case, he had crushed souls that could hurriedly measure up. He steadied himself.

"HAH! You are weak. It is you who are the challengers – it disgusts me that Nagi would choose such a spineless champion – you amount to less than nothing. Don't make me LAUGH."

And, in a swift, telltale flick of the hand—

It started.

A short mass of black erupted from Grima's palm, manifesting into the air around it until a spherical darkness took shape. It took seconds—and the time it took to approach was even less. The undead had no time to react, no recovery, and in a flash of light his vision was swamped with black.

"—Watch out! AGH!"

A blinding rush of blue capped the right side of his vision, and he briefly recognized a sword, blazing in a half-arc ahead of him. He reflexively stepped back. A spark of white erupted from the flooring in that instant, procuring from a sword he had quickly come to recognize.

It was Lucina.

Thrown quickly to the left, he had enough time to see the gash of black rocket into her, its force only stopped by the thin metal of her blade. He had enough time to wonder about her speed before driving his own foot to the ground and dashing to where she was thrown.

The others rotated around him. Their weapons gleamed in the quickly fading light, and they formed a semi-circle of defense, locking any advance Grima could have made on the damaged Lucina.

Their combined trust was evident as they rounded the distance. Syncopated. Easily measuring up each other's openings, their weaknesses. Like before, it seemed they had a lot of experience fighting, and together. For a fraction of a second he was bereft of thought as he approached Lucina on his own, trying to force down any stray thoughts.

Thin, black shards dotted her torso. Her wounds were bloodless—and the undead could only assume that the shards themselves were the cause of that.

His choices narrowed. Lucina's breath was quickly fading; beads of new sweat ran down forehead; it wasn't long, and now even her eyes had shifted to a more pallid, glassy texture. The speed of the damage – its source – was frighteningly devastating.

He tipped the flask of one of his estus flasks to her half-open lips and waited.

The effect—was instantaneous. Her eyes fluttered open as she intuitively grasped her own sword, and the wounds around her chest faded as if they had never occurred. She froze in response to the estus's unique taste, parting her lips until she could manage to stand.

Bewildered, she staggered forward until she unsheathed the blade, brandishing it in a wide arc.

"I'll have to thank you for that. And, I hate to mince words, but this is far from over." She smiled, occupying an air of similar confidence as she stared at Grima. "We will challenge this fate. Like how our friend has challenged and changed ours."

It was obvious that this was directed toward the undead but, he didn't return her optimistic glance. He took the time to evaluate what that meant. A friend. A friend—that didn't involve being, really, self-interested in the first place. He only had one goal and, even though Nagi had cautioned him against it, he couldn't picture tasking his incentive other than his own.

A friend—that's what the others were to each other.

The undead shifted his mental gears as he heard the callous steps of Grima, accompanied by a newfound wave of cold. He stayed unnaturally silent. Unarmed—as Nah, Gerome and Laurent—were resolute. For several moments there was a standstill on the frontlines, and, without a word Grima's unsightly grin resurfaced.

Previously, the undead had associated the voice with a masculinity. Male. However, it was clear that in itself was a misconception. It was impossible to tell. Grima's tone bordered on a lukewarm ground, tilting between two distinct octaves, and the undead couldn't picture which one.

There wasn't any other word that fit—ungodly, divine.

"You have chosen a path to ruin. It bothers me to see how ignorant you are to your own demise. LET me show you what it means; you will die. HERE. I will leave this castle in tattered pieces!"

Then he held up a card.

The word came to the undead instantly, although he had never seen anything relatively close to it before. It was thin, bathed in the same darkness that had incapacitated them earlier. It gave off a familiar aura – regal – as if proud to be summoned to limelight.

Thinking about the accuracy of his shot and the distance between them, the undead quickly fired off two arrows—aimed for the heart, the card.

He expected a straight impact, but a stainless, cold dark seized the castle the instant his fingers left the trigger.

As if to compliment the atmosphere, a black spire erupted from the center of the tiles, rupturing a gash across the floor where Grima had been standing. His ears pounded against a sickening hiss. Laurent tumbled off to his right, his books scattering against an invisible wind. Nah cried out in pain.

_Shockwave._ He quickly accounted his inventory, counting the seconds. _Is that card a variation of a summoning? This aura. This feeling. I can't—_

"No… TIKI!" Lucina dove forward, embracing Tiki's unconscious body as they tumbled to a sharp halt. Grima laughed coldly as he kicked at Gerome, throwing his axe into a divot on the opposite side of the room. The exchange took seconds, and the undead hands furled around a chime, cursing when all that escaped from it was air.

"Hah! Behold. The manifestation of your incompetence, your desire, YOUR WANTS. SEE THEM CRUSHED." He couldn't finish the words. The buffeting wind intensified until it drowned out each syllable, cancelling all other noise. A grasping hand reached out from the source, and with a voice—a toxic, familiar, chilling voice—and all movement ceased.

"_Bearer of the Curse…_" It hissed. "_It appears we've met again. What cruel, twisted fate has befallen you…"_

The undead wrenched his hand forward and stared at the opposing force. His eyes leveled at the round incarnations of darkness that spawned around him. He struggled to mend his thoughts; they were scattered, a voiceless sound in his head until the image of Nashandra found him.

_ -That's right._

Before his very eyes in 'this' world, he had come face-to-face with his original, tyrannical enemy. He had trashed the possibility earlier – the evidence that another being could have followed suite - the instant he had set foot inside the city's walls. His doubts were crushed—and that was a bad, fatal mistake.

His eyes rested on her outreaching forearm, climbing until it meant the long handle of a pitch-black crescent reaper.

"_Oh, how rich_." A pillar of darkness rose from the source, clawing its way to the surface as a voice hissed to life. Bloodchilling. "_It appears he has truly been meddling in our internal affairs, and how charming. Death is an impossibility for a poor creature as you, yet you run. You hide from the potential of a nonexistent end. I am here to end it for you, my pitiful undead. You have no business—there can only be one fit for the throne."_

Nashandra, as the undead quickly discerned—was unrecognizeable. She had manifested into a being of darkness – of want – and strived for nothing more. Skeletal beings were embedded into the lower portion of her body, replaced by a putrid, dying base. Her face had been masked with skulls. A hollow dusk of her originally. He sensed instability. A lust for power. A rush of potential had flooded her eyes, and the undead knew that she saw nothing else.

The undead refused to move, to sway to the words. Fear and anger gripped at his soul, and he chose to answer to both. She was the instigator of his downfall, their very land, a land that she herself resided in, and she was content with seeing it burned to the ground.

_This Nashandra—speaks in the same manner from the one in the castle. This is some manifestation of the original version. But why is she here? Is she after me, or…_

_No._

He remembered the words he had heard so sullenly earlier. It felt like a long, long time ago—"_Come now… we shall show him the dark… and our new collaboration_."

The two of them were working together, running the same gears, same goals. Then, it should've been self-evident that other than her, it was likely that Nashandra would have access to other entities of Drangleic. They were hopelessly outmatched. Immersing himself in that revelation, he managed to yell out a quick order to Lucina, who had narrowly ducked to safety on the opposing end of a pillar.

Telling her to move out of the way, he recollected his voice until he was sure everyone could hear. "Distract Grima while I take on Nashandra." He felt Laurent and Nah shift positions under his words, and he re-equipped the pole-arm of his halberd. "When there's a chance to escape, take it. Until then let's try to keep our casualties to zero, huh?"

He kick-started his vision. His peripherals deepened as he lowered the guard of his shield and aimed ahead. He breathed. Slowly, closing his eyes for several seconds and let the clock run its time.

"We're not leaving you behind." Lucina smiled at him as she reappeared from the shadows, her eyes sly and a little stubborn. The expression surprisingly fit her. "No one gets left here, alone."

"Ah." He refused to look back. "Well I hope you can back that up."

"Twofold."

Then, a hairs-width from the heel of his foot, Nashandra's attack struck.

A long, bladed beam rushed the ground ahead of him – silently and without a breath of warning – and he easily sustained a hissing cut to his left. "_Die_."

He spun his halberd into the ground and rotated off, dodging a swift blow from Nashandra's reaper before swiping his weapon against the flat of her back. Roaring, she backed up and held her left palm to her chest.

And he was thrown backward.

Hurtling through the air like he had been struck by battering ram, he ruptured the near-side of a pillar as he landed against the back wall. A low-piercing scream sounded from where the explosion came from and, the nearest flooring ruptured, as if attacked by the sound.

"Your efforts are meaningless… I am epitome of power." Nashandra switched her weapon into a two-handed stance and sauntered forward, letting the blade leave a trail of black behind. "You, who had sought the confines of the throne, are weak. There is no hope for two rulers… perish under my might."

Fighting to shake away his confusion, he pulled himself from the wall and readjusted the visor of his helmet. He could tell—a long crack ran down the side of his helm, already too damaged to fix.

The fixation of curses had also begun to drain him. His vision was murky from the hollowness, the feeling of losing consciousness, and within a couple moments, he couldn't ignore the fact that he would soon be losing his remaining humanity.

A lifedrain patch was situated a little out of his reach, and he swiped half-heartedly to quench its crippling effects. Started by a slow approach, Nashandra raised her reaper high over her head and felt inclined to smile at him. The undead only watched, his eyes running the surface of the tiles—until they settled on Lucina's rocketing, eloquent form.

Her blade burrowed itself into the brink of Nashandra's base.

"HYAAARRRGHHH!" Nashandra spun inhumanly fast, swiping at the air Lucina had been standing a split-second before. She had no time, no opening to attack, before being ransacked from another, swift barrage of hits.

Steeping low under the cover of her attack, Lucina raised her golden blade slightly skyward, as if holding a much more slender, rapier-like sword—as if in preparation—before bursting into a short sprint with the blade overhead.

"—Aether!"

Her first hit landed, the blade popping mid-air into a mix of red and blue flames, alighting the forefront of Nashandra's body. The cut was not deep; it was far from deep; but its effect appeared to be magnified.

Nashandra doubled over, as if rammed in the stomach. Lucina spun clockwise, and jabbed in quick succession. She keeled. She struck again. Another blast of power ruptured. A burst of light transferred Lucina's body, and she glowed a light shade of green. It was suddenly soundless. Pointless to listen.

_Damn._

Lucina backed up after landing her strike—noticing the sudden abruption of her movement—and resorted to standing tersely several feet away. Nashandra didn't move from her spot, perplexed at how she had survived, and resulted to firmly watch her from a distance.

It reminded the undead of what he had seen Severa accomplish, a sort of innate ability that could be called forth in a pinch. He could not fathom it. The damage she had done in two strikes was substantial and, had he been hit himself, he couldn't be sure if he would even be standing at the end of it.

He had to smile wryly at that. _I guess I should be a little thankful we haven't crossed paths as enemies._

He rose from his seated position and scanned the right side—nearest to the doorway. From the outskirts of his vision, Laurent quietly approached. Gerome had recovered his axe. And Nah, despite the quick succession of attacks, had recovered and grasped her Dragonstone quietly as she stared at Lucina and Nashandra. Her eyes drifted toward the undead.

_Smooth._

"_You are nothing but mortal." _Nashandra hissed, slowly closing the distance to Lucina, "_A pawn of your own undoing. You have no say in who lives or who dies, it's an illusion to you, and it shall fade faster than you can stay your blade. A mere _**human**_ has no business meddling in the affairs of gods!"_

With an unchanging expression she readied her blade again, chuckling as Lucina readied her stance. The undead allowed his vision to wander as he moved forward, crouching as his eyes settled on Grima's slowing movement. His black hood swayed—split between two forces of attack—a soundless contorting mouth.

Chanting.

"_You are finished." _Nashandra swiped downwards at Lucina's fleeting form. Vaulting, she crashed into the hilt of the blade and spun upward, upheaving an arc of black blood as her sword, again—lit up in flames as her whole body spun half-circle in the air.

She pivoted downward as the undead approached, and he cleaved with speed at the cleft of Grima's neck.

The shifting lips ceased—and they parted quickly.

Immediately, the flame of Lucina's wicked sword faded. The undead's sword missed by a wide margin and he was sent spiraling to the ground, clutching the center of his chest in a fit of panic. Movement from the far-side of the enclosure stiffened. Blades stopped. Their bodies refused to move.

The undead had never felt his strength sapped so quickly.

He had been on the receiving end of hexes – dark magic – predestined on the destruction of the victim's soul. He had been burdened by invisible hands—blinded by a harrowing fog. Yet, staring up at the fading lights of the sun, he had never felt an effect this heart-wrenching.

His body refused to move, he couldn't lift a finger.

Grima's voice raised to a sharp staccato. "HAH. YOU PITIFUL SPAWNS OF NAGA. Watch, this pitiful end, as you witness your weakness finally manifested. POWERLESS. A thousand years of recession, and THIS. THIS IS HUMANITY'S RESISTANCE? Yes. Disappointing. Be satisfied with your trash-ridden ends!"

A callous applause of steps peppered to the center of the room. The undead cursed. His voice sputtered with sound as he tried to pull himself upright, driving his halberd at the surface of the floor. He teetered in place. A spray of nausea covered his eyes.

His body refused to move, he couldn't lift his blade.

He couldn't lift a finger when Tiki was killed.

An unsightly amount of blood coated Grima's cloak, dripping to the floor from the lowest edge of his weapon. From the edge of a jagged, tipsy sword. A sword that the undead would grow to hate. A weapon he had no intention of hating.

A spur of anger welled up inside him as Lucina cried out, toppling forward as her blade clattered beside her. She was at Grima's mercy now. A lost cause. He slowly strode toward her, chuckling maniacally as a trail of red followed the steps.

He had never seen her so frightened; her so angry. Her eyes welled up with a faint drop of tears, as she fumbled with the hilt of her blade—only to have it kicked out of her reach. Grima raised the thick blade, raising his hands and buffing the blade with a yellow light. Nashandra didn't utter a word; she backed up. She created a space between the world that no undying soul could traverse.

The undead forced the world to slow down; and held his breath.

The center of his chest—the space where his heart would've been—was suddenly made painfully aware to him. He couldn't rationalize the feeling. He had seen the road of life and ending of death, hundreds of times. He remembered himself thinking that.

Nagi had told him to seek Lucina. The swordswoman. Her death would more-likely constitute in his own failure. He wasn't one-hundred-percent sure of his objective—what it would really take to defeat the harbinger of evil from destroying this world.

He would obviously be at a loss for information. The dead speak no words. She didn't deal with the complications of being undead, a topside cycle of death; a death had never been anything than permanent.

Yet, that only made up a fraction of his feeling. He felt like he was going to lose it all but…

He thought he was going to lose so much more. Grima kicked at her upright body. The kick hadn't been done intentionally to harm her, but it was enough force that it was impossible to get back up. Grima pressed the center of chest with a plated knee. He couldn't read her expression.

He heard the screams of his comrades, but they were slowly fading away. He started to ignore them.

He focused on her figure, the same posture staring up at the sky—without a word.

She didn't flinch. She was stubborn, and Grima smiled widely when that realization reached him. She hardened her posture when the blade descended, and slowly, as if reaping every second.

Her death wouldn't be the last. He could easily outpace the spell's time-limit, repeating the process until he was ultimately satisfied with the last. His blade would rise and fall, tinted with blood from the previous to the last, until the last person would ultimately break. It was a pointless prefect to die. Not here—not possible. Lucina rotated her head toward him, and almost seemed to speaking something.

Her voice was pained, straining for air that her life would not allow her to have. The distance between them was too much to make out voice, but he was absolutely sure of the words.

The undead lifted a finger.

_Dammit!_

"_Sorry_."


	5. Chapter 4 - A Dawn to Darkness

**Quick AU/Response - I'm a liar. I'm so inconsistent it's scary. Next chapter on SOME weekend. Not sure when that'll be.**

**I saw this being done on a couple other stories: An authors response. It looks great. Don't have to rely on PMs, maybe. Let me know if you prefer any other method of communication. Thanks for reading and here goes:**

**Krulla Chief - Yeah, see what you mean. He gets tossed around a lot and, generally, not having a good time. In my defense though (and his) he _hasn't _fought Nashandra multiple times. In Drangleic, he was on his way to fight her for the first time. He just knew it was her when she appeared on her throne. I'm also imagining this story in the HARDEST difficulty for both franchises, so I try to make it apparent he could die to anyone.  
**

** - ...Ha.**

**ishygddt456 - Looking for him to do that. After this chapter though, I plan on making the pace a bit more relaxed. I haven't even gotten to the main portion of the game yet, and things are already bloody.**

**glenloc - Thanks. Indeed it is. I just limited it so he couldn't pull swords/bombs/whatever and supply Ylissean armies single-handedly. If I didn't limit the box he would be one overpowered dude.**

**Now... back where we left off:**

* * *

He lifted his finger.

He tried to press it down.

He lifted it again.

Repeat.

…Repeat.

Repeat.

The undead had been continuing the same movement over and over. It was hard to move. Difficult – almost impossible – but in that moment it was the only movement he could manage to do.

Any other shift in muscle that surpassed waving a limb would cause a head-splitting pain—enough to succumb his eyes in black, spotless gaps. He aimlessly repeated the movement until he was fully aware of his capabilities, biding the seconds as the hooded figure ahead raised the blade.

He couldn't gauge if he had positioned himself correctly. He focused out the yells and screams, trying to settles his eyes on the crest of his helmet, and blot out the world.

He lifted his finger.

"_Sorry."_

She had nothing to be sorry for.

He pressed it down.

**And, an arrow, no longer than the length of a dagger, sailed toward Grima's head.**

The arrow hissed at the distance of air between them. He watched its trail, sparking in the light, until it spanned the distance to its target. He held his breath. Willing himself onto the tips of his toes, mid-air into a strike. His trigger finger twitched.

The arrow hit red steel.

"Heh." Grima's voice contorted as he lifted his head, even more amused than earlier. "I see you've managed to resist my impairment. Admirable. However, really, IT WILL TAKE MORE THAN TRICKERY TO BEST MY STRENGTH!"

The undead had to smile to himself. No one—not a soul could witness his expression, yet he felt everyone in the room could feel it. The unbearable pain dissipated from his shoulders, his chest, freeing them from the crippling cold. He reflexively raised his head; closed his stance; raised his blade—and let those satisfactions run through him.

A length of stone crumpled under his weight as he spanned the gap between them.

He rotated sideways and slammed into Grima's side. He felt the crunch of bone fall under the Claymore's sharpened blade—a clean hit. His body hooked on the base at the impact, falling to a stop as his crooked blade narrowly stopped another fatal hit.

_Too bad. One distraction can get you killed._

He cut down on his flailing body, thrusting repeatedly until the blade embedded itself deeply into the ground, an inch from its mark.

Grima recovered quickly. He kicked out, upheaving himself from the confines of the sword and rotated clockwise around the undead, flicking a spark of lightning in the undead's presence. Wasting no time, the undead clocked his pyromancy. His cloak singed. The undead smelled a teary, singed, burned sash of cloth from where the flames met.

Grima met it in force. The undead jumped out and rammed against his fleeting pace as he tried to counter, painting a wide killing-arc until he met flesh. The undead laughed. Grima struck out again – and the undead crouched – ripping his body hilt-deep into his abdomen.

He couldn't kill him—but he knew that, the second his first hit landed.

He let his actions speak for him, and threw him sideways, driving the hilt as far as it could go; into his body; into the ground.

The attack had ended so quickly that the undead couldn't quite comprehend what had happened himself. He stared at the shadow of his hood and drove the blade deeper.

He wanted to finish him off. To end him – piece by piece and limb from limb – letting him panic as he wretched his own blade between his eyes. He stared at him and wished for that expression, that sense of satisfaction, and only met his upturned smile as he smirked at him.

It must've been painless. He didn't flinch as the undead pressed further, and only grinned at the undead's expense. "Don't think you've won from this measly fight. You're a far-cry from that. You are DEAD. Tiki has been destroyed—your goal, this illusion, has come to an ultimate end. Undead. RUN FROM YOUR GRAVE, FOR IT WILL MEAN YOUR PERMANENT DEATH."

Grima knocked his head back against the flooring and laid still for a moment—and the undead finally noticed it. From the back tuft of his hood he noticed a little outcrop of white hair. The same as snow. The same, crystallized white.

He couldn't shake the image out of his mind when Grima receded but, now, that was all he knew.

"Try me." The undead prepared another round of combustion, and Grima laughed hysterically.

Then he disappeared.

His body vanished into a thicket of black fog, dispersing into the air in a short funnel. The undead couldn't describe the smell other than foul. He hacked up his air and ripped the sword from the flooring. The blade had been chipped. He'd fix it up later.

Nashandra had vanished in her own right. She was missing from the very space that the undead had seen earlier; a fog that shrunk into the ground in the same manner as the others.

This setback rattled the undead, but he knew that he needed to move on. Grima was gone—at least for now—they were lucky scrambling up for a draw. They would never lose without a fight, without a win. Grima might have escaped but, he had a feeling, that his disappearance wouldn't last very long.

A fire was spurring in the far corner of the room. The aftermath of the fight – the wreckage – would have made the undead gasp if the circumstances had been different. A pillar had been sliced clean open where Lucina had been standing. A chandelier was broken beyond repair.

He tried to close his eyes, let his muscles relax from the ordeal. He was still incredibly tense, hypersensitive to every movement of the room. His breath was unsteady and callous, blocked by tension he coulddn't sate.

"…You're undead, right?"

His solitude ceased to relapse as he turned toward the voice. Lucina stood, several feet away, and spoke nonchalantly. She was smiling—and the words didn't match her face.

He let his blade dip to his side, and continued to watch her carefully.

"That's true. I'm undead."

She pursed her lips, but didn't drop her gaze. Out of his peripheral, he noticed the others come up behind her, battered but alive, and curious to know her response.

He was impressed the others had recovered so easily. Nah, Gerome and Laurent were relatively unscathed, avoided the focal point of the attack. Lucina, while injured, appeared to be in good condition.

In the distance he could hear the shouts echoing along the walls of the castle. The voice of orders, attacks and movement—the event was being broadcast softly, as if happening from the other side of the world.

"May I see it?" Lucina reflexively glanced straight into his eyes. She seemed to do that a lot. "I'd rather not intrude into your personal affairs, but I think it's a little odd we haven't gone to such an extent to know you."

Nah nodded at that and added on, "I think we should see it too. I mean, you don't ACT like a risen, much less been a threat to us. As far as I'm concerned, those were empty words."

The other two didn't respond but, because they'd just arrived, it was obvious they just didn't know what was going on. If he'd heard this conversation from another perspective, he never would've guess they had just been fighting for their life.

The undead was absolutely sure he had been cursed during the fight. He wasn't in any condition to be making good appearances. But, really, it might've been just what he'd needed. Popping a human effigy now would cause even more confusion—and he wanted to measure their reaction.

He wanted to see how they would move in the face of the enemy, a face non-distinct of a risen.

He unequipped his right gauntlet and stared at it. His hand was a dark green, tinted like a stagnant moss, wrinkled. He wriggled his exposed fingers in the air.

"That's…!" Gerome started. He crept up quickly ahead of the rest and rested his right hand against his side.

Lucina cut him off immediately, "Enough. I wish to have faith in our friend—he is one of us now. A friend. Let us cast away our doubts. Undead," she said it like a title, "If I may ask, could you remove your helm?"

He fitted his gauntlet back into place and shifted in his position. The undead himself remembered his appearance, but vaguely. He had no name, one he could recall—and his appearance came second to that. The undead rarely caught himself without a helm obstructing his face, and he had never been one for aesthetics.

"…Alright. If you're expecting a good appearance, you should stop it now."

"I've not expecting anything."

Without wasting a beat he slowly adjusted his helm so his visor shifted outwards and removed the damaged equipment. He let their realization sink in as he let the helm drop at his side, and let out a loose, probably hideous, smile.

The group ruptured into silence. Even Gerome, who had been initially apprehensive about his arrival, couldn't muster the will, or even the courage to speak out now. Nah nodded to herself, perhaps expecting as much. Laurent appeared visibly shaken, but said nothing.

Lucina was the problem.

Her expression was unchanged from the moment she laid eyes upon his face, if not slightly intrigued. With time that intrigue changed dramatically, and she smiled conservatively at him. "You truly have dodged my expectations, and I find it difficult to believe. To think you have sided with us, and that you have retained your humanity!"

The undead had to wince a little at her response. From her perspective, he supposed, he was a good abnormality to the situation—a solution. Lucina saw him as a beacon of hope in her own world, that there was maybe a chance – a difference – that would save them from their own situation.

He didn't want her to believe that. "It's not the way you're thinking. I'm different, yes, but I'm not a cure to the problem. I'm not a risen; I'm not a human. It hasn't been by choice that I've sided with you but, as of now, it's more along the lines of a necessity." He didn't want to explain.

Lucina's eyes widened slightly at that, but she didn't hesitate on continuing. Unceasingly, she sheathed her sword with a sharp snap and stared him in the eye. "That may be true, but my resolution remains the same. As you are now, I believe you to be human. Humanity cannot be shone only a beings physical appearance, but to the soul as well." She paused, apparently running into a new thought, "It's my pleasure… but I can't find the difference, no matter the degree it takes me to try."

Her words seemed to cling to the air around the undead longer when she said that. He reached for our each syllable, trying to derive their meaning.

No one else clashed their opinion to that but, to the undead, it seemed like their disposition really was similar.

Before the undead could chime in a response, an explosion clattered from the entrance of the building—followed by a chorus of screaming guards. He tabled his words. "Okay. I'll take you by your word. Let's bring out attention to what's going on outside. We can... talk later."

"Agreed."

He sighed at that, and felt the automatic movement of the group as they collapsed and shifted to a long run for the doors. He was grateful for the distraction to a certain degree—at least—he wouldn't have to explain about it later.

Clipping his longsword from the side, he readjusted his—now cracked—helmet. Aside from the clattering of armor and weaponry, they ran toward the doors in a chivalrous, but brooding and careful, bravado. In seconds they neared the center-line of the massive doorway, and Gerome quickly turned the dials that operated the doorway.

He took notice of a metal object that Lucina appeared to be holding, but he didn't bring himself to question it.

"YYAAAAAAAA!"

The group backed up quickly as a soldier caked in black ran through the doorway, rolling to a stop several feet behind them. Not wasting a second, Lucina re-tasked her position and rushed to help him, leaving the undead to stay at-point.

"...Shit."

The frontal bridge that led up to their fortress was completely blockaded by a wall of enemy soldiers. The Risen. Arrows sailed toward the castle walls in a machine-like fashion, peppering the grounds in an array of wood and steel.

The undead's eyes shifted to meet the impalement of one soldier, only to drift onto the next one—a casualty. His mind grasped for a plan to meet the impending force of soldiers, but came up with nothing.

He stared back at the others, but they didn't return his gaze. Their eyes drifted at the cornerstone of the horizon, and stayed there, as if mesmerized by the flagging colors of enemy swords.

They had two options.

Close the doors, and leave the soldiers to die, or leave them open, risking a fortress turnover to the enemy. Naturally the doors weren't unbreakable, but it would by them valuable time. He couldn't ignore the fact that, if Grima or the Risen were to take over the castle, their battle would be over before it even started.

Weighing those options in his hands he turned toward the others and saw the same faces. Their stone cold, rational, fearful, expressions. It was a hard decision, and it was obvious they would never have enough time to mull it over.

"Can we gather the soldiers inside the gate while we hold them off?" Nah suggested, moving to the front of the group, "It shouldn't be too hard."

"Too risky, they'll compromise our contact right away. The risen will rush as soon as our own soldiers turn tail." Gerome said. "Lest our soldiers can hear us in the first place."

Nah anxiously sighed, juggling that-one-deadly-stone in her left hand. "Then do you have ANY clever ideas?"

"None. But I don't want to die a chivalrous end to scraps of risen flesh."

"Well, that makes two of us then. I want to leave here with all my feathers intact—thank you very much."

"If for once you'd only use your little—"

"Enough." Lucina pulled up between them and lowered her sword, her voice level. "Our mutual bickering is getting us nowhere. Let's set this aside for now—I think I've got a plan, but I need to make sure it works the way I expect it to! How do you think our soldiers our heavy soldiers are faring, Laurent?"

Laurent responded immediately, booking a page from one of his carry-on books and staring at the battlefield. "Abrasively. Our frontal defenses appear to be sustaining crippling damage from enemy magic. A majority of this collateral damage appears to be dark."

The undead raised his eyebrow slightly at that: More and more, it seemed like this world and his had a lot of similarities.

"Good. Then I think we can afford losing our grounds to the enemy in Ylisstol."

"What?!" Nah nearly jumped, rupturing the rhythm of her stone-juggling. "Isn't this the one place we should be protecting? If Ylisstol falls, this symbol of hope that we've clung to for so long... don't you think that'll be falling to?"

"It's not that... Nah. It's never been about that. Our symbol of hope is dependent on our very lives as citizens of Ylisse. It's our duty to defend the future that we will sacrifice ourselves to see that cause to its end. So, if there's a chance of conserving that hope that we have to give up a sliver of ours—I think I can be grateful."

"...That's..."

The undead cut in. "We don't have time to deviate our options now. The risen will be bound to notice the gates soon—let's make a decision, and quickly. We're not receiving any reinforcements."

"No, we are, and that's what I'm counting on." Lucina smiled at him. "It's what we've been counting on from the beginning."

Apparently her next actions were only decipherable by others. "You don't mean... the awakening..." Gerome said. "We're not in a position to prepare the ritual in our condition!"

"Our situation couldn't be more on our side, Gerome. Naga had spoken to me when Tiki was stabbed – nothing much, but it was clear - and she said: 'As long Tiki's body remains here, the ritual can be completed.' The others will arrive before then. I promise it."

_Others?_

"We can't base this on luck alone!"

A roar of approaching soldiers cut their conversation off as the flurry of arrows dissipated, row after row, a mass of black steely eyes. Soldier after soldier fell back on their knees and feverishly retaliated, brushed aside like feathers under the foot of the advancing forces. The rustic smell of blood tainted the air like a fresh plague—the crescent moon reflected the blood.

Their slow steps gradually snowballed into a sprint, leaving their stragglers behind, a blockade of swords piercing their way towards them.

"We'll have to stall for time," The undead said, and he paused, clouding the silence. "If what you're saying is true and allies are on their way, it's a plan as good as any. Don't fight it out. Run. Let's take the stairs to the roof where we came from and compromise the passages afterward. They're attention has re-focused on us—your soldiers are safe. I don't know what this ritual is, but I'd like to think it'd be worth it."

Lucina smiled at his suggestion, and the others nodded in grim agreement. This hadn't become much of a choice—their enemies had stepped up and decided for them. Lucina chimed in again, "There are still soldiers on the upper floors, we just have to warn them of our advance. None of them know that the enemy have infiltrated our walls."

She continued. "That being said, let's continue with equal resolve! We'll pick up our swords, and fight!"

With a collective cheer from the group, they lit up a signal with a fire-spell at the front entrance to warn their soldiers and broke for the stairs.

They were overwhelmed in an instant.

Breaking away from the top of the stairs, and taking an unconscious Tiki with them, a dozen archers approached the corner, peeling back an equal amount of bowstrings until their arrows left the owners. Inches away from them, the arrows burrowed past the shaft into the wall behind them, flickering in a compact form of energy.

Laurent fell back immediately, chanting before a spiral of energy emitted from his hand, evening the stairs into a landslide of rubble and bricks. Every arrow spun backward mid-air, turning the approaching Risen into a frenzy of shock—confused chattering clicks resounding from their empty skulls.

The damage wasn't permanent by any means, but it would buy time. There was another stairwell on the opposite side of the building but, luckily, the second floor was the farthest it would go.

Objective. The top floor. Roof. Time. It seemed like they were getting less and less of each.

Every corner they would stop to warn remaining soldiers to arms, but it was quickly apparent that whatever soldiers left were off-the-clock. Off duty. Many of their primary weaponry had been dispatched to the soldiers on the field, and the soldiers here never even considered the possibility of Risen breaching the castle so quickly.

They repeated it. The same reaction through four different floors, and they listened to the screams echo beneath them through every advance. Every floor was instructed to burn the previous stairwell if they were overrun, but he knew that was unlikely.

In doing so, they would be condemning their own deaths.

The group was consumed in silence as they rushed the roof steadily, attempting to pickle away the bursts of despair that tried to overcome them. To the undead, he could feel that weight pressing more prevalently on the others than on him. These were their own blood. Their home. That one word itself would forever be foreign to him.

He cycled through his items until his hands rested on the fragile base of a human effigy—and he just held it there.

They arrived on the roof; without a sparkle of starlight in the sky. A tenacious wind ran through the upper echelons of the building, and friendly archers frantically shot downward at every disturbance.

His thoughts returned to Drangleic momentarily as he looked at his allies, and resolved himself. He reminded himself again that he wasn't alone. He would do whatever it takes to change what needed to be changed. There were no limits.

Their fate would lie on their own shoulders.

"Listen up, soldiers of Ylisse!" Lucina yelled over the wind, and the undead was taken aback by how quickly the soldiers returned their attention. Their bows dipped, devoid of wariness. "This is our final stand! The day we have anticipated our whole lives, this danger that has wrought havoc upon our generation—is here. Resolve yourselves to fight this evil, this dictator of our destiny, and crush it under-foot! Ylisse is our home. Our elders have given their lives for this very battle, and it is our inheritance to finish that journey."

"I expect no less. We shall cut them down—today—victory will be OURS!"

Her bravado echoed back in waves. Every division of the roof shot back words of encouragement and valor, as if overstimulated by her influence. A sharp torch-line lit up the rim of the tower. Dozens locked their aim on approaching aerial enemies; swords were raised.

The undead's group repeated her words in collective comments, amused but half-stunned, as if not quite used to Lucina's leadership qualities. Yet, to the undead, her words reminded him of something further back than his memory could traverse him, a line of euphoric events he couldn't pin down.

Her voice reminded him of something he'd long forgotten.

"Ah, well let's stay within the sight of our soldiers for the time being. I feel... our reinforcements will be arriving soon." Lucina said, a little wistfully.

Her voice suddenly sounded a lot more convicted than it had earlier which was expected. "I feel we should split up for the time being and tighten our defenses." Gerome said. "Our enemies are pathetic. Thinking they can overwhelm our defenses with aerial fights, they will surely perish the thought as soon as they've witnessed my wrath..."

"Speaking of which," Nah started. "I haven't had the chance to use my new dragonstone. I'm itching to try it out. It'd be good practice."

Lucina laughed contentedly at that, releasing an unseen tension from her expression. "It's settled then. We'll split up into two groups: Gerome, Nah, who will take the skies—we shall cover the roof. Assist our people in any way you deem necessary, time is of the essence."

"Roger that." Nah said. "We won't disappoint, and good luck to you guys too—you'll need it."

When they left – dragon and wyvern – the undead followed the remaining two to the defending towers and eventually the throne room, clashing with rival soldiers who managed to slip past front line defenders.

The night trudged on. Unforgiving to every casualty, foreign or friendly, every sound was neatly displayed to everyone involved. The undead's sword was haphazardly splattered with patches of moist ash very quickly, and it seemed like every swing was making the blade heavier.

After some time Laurent left to assist in the upper floors as soon as they had engaged, leaving the two of them behind to fend off straggling invaders. The undead was vaguely aware of Nah's signature fire blaze overhead on occasion; or the blurring figure of Gerome's fleeting attacks. His peripheral had shortened immensely when the battle had started, one enemy at a time, and the undead rapidly fell into that function.

Lucina told him how the roof of the castle was specifically designed to take on aerial mounts, and how they had been expecting an aerial attack for some time now. Confronted with this ordeal though, the soldiers had never received any immediate training, and their shots reflected that.

The two of them were, more than anything, covering for the shortfalls of the their comrades.

As soon as the first signs of dawn approached, the overwhelming clout of enemies disappeared momentarily, and the only sound was the panicked voices of the survivors. The sky was empty except for the light, but an invisible haze hung over the sky like a predestined attack was just beginning.

The wounded – which appeared to be everyone – scrapped together their remaining weaponry in the numerous piles of ash.

"What... is... going on?" Nah panted next to him when she arrived, which sounded strangely ominous, since she was still a dragon. "I have a bad feeling about this, a really bad feeling."

The undead retrieved his halberd that was embedded in a wall along with a layer of ash. He pulled it, only for it to promptly break in half. He understood what she was saying. A tremendous presence loomed overhead and from all directions, like the premonition of a terrible storm, and it was powerful enough to upstage any of the enemies he'd encountered in the past.

He packaged his broken weapon and pulled out a battered claymore.

The undead watched the skyline with a careful eye. A rift of darkness approached the east-side of the castle, blotting out the morning light. The power that emancipated from there, even with the distance, made the undead shiver slightly.

What, exactly, were they dealing with?

Lucina, and eventually the rest of the group, gathered around the castle-railing as soon as the thought had crossed his mind. An eerie silence overcame the group as they stared straight ahead. Not a word was said but, it was obvious that this threat, the mass of black, wasn't an unfamiliar foe to them.

A voice came up from behind them. "Ah, no... It's Grima..."

The group turned to meet the voice. Two familiar people walked slowly toward them, arms-to-shoulders in support, and patched in a series of bandages.

For a second, he couldn't believe it.

"Severa, Cynthia, thank goodness you're here—I was beginning to worry." Lucina greeted. "Where have you two gone off to?"

"Long story," Severa answered. She appeared to be in the more healthy condition of the two. Long scratches ran down her arms, which she clutched tightly to her chest, which made the undead wonder if the injuries were more severe than they appeared.

"We managed to retrieve Cynthia's pegasus after a little while but, after this smoke and all, we couldn't stay out of the action—no way."

The undead looked over at Cynthia, and stifled a shutter. Two sharp cuts rioted for his attention. The deep gash that had embedded her left leg had been patched up hastily, unsightly soaked, with a patch of cloth that clung loosely to her damaged arm. Her face was a moonlit shade of pale.

"I'm okay..." Cynthia replied when their attention had obviously turned to her. "Just a scratch..."

"It's unequivocally substantial wounds," Laurent assessed. "I am thoroughly astounded to learn you still remain upright after sustaining those wounds."

She shook her head in response, and Severa brought her to a seat next to the roof's garden. She flinched when she let go, stared hard at the ground and pinched her arm.

Her eyes widened when the undead approached, more surprised than anything. Shifting through the contents of his pouch, he pulled out hard, jagged stone, and set it in her palm. "Crush it in your hand." He said. "The effect doesn't happen immediately, but it's better than just letting it set on your own."

"Thanks. Oh, um, wow! It's a little hard to crush but..." She pressed it between both of her hands, waited until a small crack of light emitted from it's gaps. Her eyes widened further at that, "Wow, I feel... I feel tons better! I can't believe this little rock can do this much..."

"It's a lifegem." He answered, trying to keep the definition simple, "I wasn't sure that it would work on you, but it's great that is has. Better than any conventional medicine."

His smile tightened at that.

_Really, if I knew I would be transferred over here I would've taken a lot more._

"Thanks for this, and, um, for saving me earlier. I mean, if you hadn't done what you did, I would've been a goner." She looked to be a little saddened by that, like she expected him to be disappointed.

"Don't worry about that. You were strong on your own—I knew that that if I left you two could handle it. I'm just happy you're alive as it is."

"Me too."

It would be hard to miss it, the diverging thoughts that hammered against his mind. He had to console himself and remember the mortality of the people he was with. While death for him would send him to his last destination, for the others it was still nothing but permanent.

As he thought about that, he noticed another figure standing next to – what he assumed was Cynthia's mount – a dark haired girl clad in a suit of heavy armor. Her gaze turned to him sharply, hardened, and the undead could do nothing but stare back.

Her armor differed from the other soldiers, so he had to assume that it was another member of his cohorts. She seemed to be sizing him up; it surprised him, since that was the first conclusion he arrived on.

_**RRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!**_

Blades of wind ushered toward them from the east-side of the building, driving an inhumane, blood-thirsty roar. Shouts echoed from the cohorts of the roof as the shifting of arrows followed. The mass of darkness had quickly advanced in the time they had been been talking, until he could make out a shape.

He strained his eyes to see—but it was no different.

A dragon.

Clad in dark, with two sets of wings that ate up the sky, looking, he couldn't pay attention to anything else. The faces of the everyone else fell. Despair.

From the moment he stepped in the burning sands beyond Ylisse, he wondered what had caused such a desecration of the land. The desert; the forest; missing along with the villages that stood among them. The immense power he felt made sense, now. He didn't have to search for the reason, the answer to why—it was right in front of him.

"Call your arms! We will survive once more, and bring this night to a favorable end!"

The response was much less chivalrous.

For several seconds, no one moved—

—And that was all the time the enemy needed.

A hundred beady eyes crashed into the flank of the soldiers, spiraling their opposition to their uncanny and swift death below. Scared more than vicious, they backed up to the center of the roof and lowered their bows.

_Death_ had found its hold among them.

Crazed in a new-found frenzy, the risen staked their claim to the east-side, rushing swords with no fear of death. Horrifically, they didn't stop, desecrating their opponents and leaving with blood. Lucina shouted for reinforcements along the east, only to be met with opposition from every other side.

It started to rain. To storm, a black, turnstile, spinning storm of white lightning. The weather changed drastically in minutes, drenching the battlefield in a sea of crystal specks and red rain. A dense fog seemed to cloud his vision, and he struggled to stay upright, clocked in with blades from every side.

Racing through the fields of rain, he spun his blade clock-wise into the base of a risen's neck, seconds away from Cynthia. He helped her up; she grimaced in response; he stabbed out at another with his freehand.

He had no recollection of where the others had gone.

Staving off another arrow with the steel of his gauntlet he made a decision. Sweeping his hand under her she propped her sideways and unequipped his own weapon. "...Hey! Wait, don't—"

He sped away from the gardens, throttling all of his energy into his speed and tried to ignore the rising pain from every arrow that entered him. He didn't have to explain to her, but she hadn't recovered enough to stand on her own. He just needed to give her a little push.

He stumbled past the throne doors. Lucina lay already inside, bleeding from an arrow from her arm. She had propped Tiki up against the wall, steadying her own breath. She held onto that metal object – which was a shield – and clung to it without a word.

_She had mentioned the awakening..._

He set Cynthia down in the same manner. Up against the wall, she flicked her eyes to him, keeping her weapon next to her side—almost in the same manner Lucina held hers. "When the others get here, we'll be okay. We just have to buy some time..."

Lucina turned toward them, aware of their presence, she bit her lip, and turned back to Tiki. She had been putting up a brave front. He had to give her a lot of credit for that.

He pulled out an arrow from a chink in his armor and lightly crushed a lifegem with his dominant hand. The end, as far as it seemed, was very close. His transfer here may be the end.

"Lucina!" He stood up from his position and watched the door. The dark haired girl and Gerome entered swiftly, knocking against an enemy blade as his wyvern screamed. "They've been sighted far off. Our search party's coming back!"

Lucina perked up slightly at that. "How far away, Kjelle? It will take a good amount of time to perform the awakening ritual."

"Fortunately—not long. They're just beyond our greatest firing range."

"Let's seize this chance. Tell everyone that—"

_**RRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH!**_

Everything stopped.

That same sound ruptured the very surface of the floor, an explosion from outside. The harrowing screams faded quickly and, from the other side of the room, where a tall throne sat—it was blown to pieces.

The face of a tactile beast sprang forth—it brought a presence that demanded to be felt. Half the throne room had been decimated in an instant. He witnessed Nah follow the throat of the beast, only to be blasted from the sky, and crumple with the ashes of the throne.

The undead pulled his pyromancy flame against the gaping space of black, only to be stopped by an invisible force. A laugh, louder than any explosion, cruel, but magnified beyond comprehension—stilled the power of everyone else in the world.

"YOU, WHO STAND BEFORE MY INFINITE MIGHT. YOU SMALL, INSIGNIFICANT CHILDREN, BORN FROM THE MISTAKES OF THE PAST..."

The dragon opened its mouth and roared again, coupled with the echoing yells of their allies.

"PERISH."

Remaining taciturn – settled with no words – a beam of red, bloodless light bathed the room in a sea of crimson. A marksman's target for death.

He was vaguely aware of the approaching party from behind him. No one moved from their position and just stared straight ahead, hoping against hope that death would never find them.

"LUCINA! WE HAVE THE REST OF THE JEWELS!"

Whipping himself backward, the undead focused on the voice and clashed with the risen that followed them in. Four boys, severely damaged, approached her with an unmatched haste.

The undead cleaved at every risen that held his way, and left a trail of fire and ash at every opportunity. The others joined him. His vision reddened.

"Put them in! Quickly!"

"The ritual..."

"Do it now!"

"It's... Tiki..."

"Don't—"

"We don't have enough time!"

"Make time!"

The tip of a lance clipped the undead's shoulder and he backed up, dividing his vision to the others.

Tiki grasped the shield with both hands, suddenly awake, and fumbled with the remaining 'jewels' until they lined up perfectly. Each one varied in color but, held against the golden border, they faintly glowed. His perception slowed as she chanted to herself.

A sharp spear pierced the right side of his body, as he pulled away, stunned in a mix of blood and powder. Flitting in a panic he fell to his knees and propped his claymore next to him, willing every second to move slower. Another arrow rattled his skull.

Everything was red.

He couldn't see.

A soft wind ruffled him from overhead, calmly, as if a soldier on the brink of death. He clutched his weapon heavily as he shut his eyes, opened his ears to everything else.

The red was slowly fading to black, and he couldn't stop it.

"No, it can't be... impossible...!"

"HA! HAH HAH HAH! YOUR CRUMBLING RITUAL, A FRAUD. YOU BELIEVED SUCH A FLEETING CALLOUS OF HOPE, AND THIS, THIS DEATH, WILL BE YOUR COMPENSATION FOR SUCH NAIVITY. BRACE FOR YOUR DEATHS!"

He opened his eyes.

And saw a tall woman standing among the chaos.

She held up her hands, her back to the impending attack and called out to them. She reached for the shield. Every jewel—clasped it. The world was impended in a darkness that couldn't be shaken, and she was the only one he could see.

Echoing voices cautioned him to move, but he didn't. He stared straight ahead, and listened to her words.

"_Show no fear, my descendents. We will change fate once more, to a different future, one untouched by this calamity. Follow me, and I shall guide you there."_

* * *

**_Thanks for reading. Again, sorry for the absurdly late chapter—I'm sure you're preparing against that now. Next chapter we'll be getting to the meat of the story and, well, I get to make more things up. There still is a possibility of me messing up somewhere this chapter, but honestly the game never documented what ACTUALLY happened before Lucina and the others went back in time. _**

**_The closest thing to that was the DLC._**

**_Speaking on that note, the undead will be getting his hands on more capable weapons next chapter as well. He's primarily relied on unbuffed, uninfused weapons and pyromancies to carry him so far. (I mean, fighting Nashandra, why NOT use pyromancy?) Not having good weapons just may be a side-effect to the limiting of the bottomless box, so I'll compensate for that later._**

**_I'll post his new stats then as well. Gotta give 'em the XPs._**

**_Anyhow. Hope you guys can look forward to it despite my lack of schedule. This will be one long story if I stick to it all the way._**

**_See ya._**


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